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"WANDA    MADE    NO    ANSWKT!  " 


COPYRIGHT.    1B02.    BY    H      S      SCOTT 


PRINTED   IN   THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
K-N 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  All  at  Sea 1 

II.  Signal  House »    .  10 

III.  A  Specialty 20 

IV.  Two  OF  A  Trade 29 

V.  An  Old  Acquaintance 39 

VI.  The  Vultures 48 

VII.  At  the  Frontier 57 

VIII.  In  a  Remote  City 67 

IX.  The  Sand-workers 76 

X.  A  Warning 84 

XI.  An  Agreement— to  Dipper 93 

XII.  Cartoner  versus  Fate 102 

XIII.  The  Wheels  op  Chance Ill 

XIV.  Sentenced 120 

XV.  A  Tale  Half  Told 139 

XVI.  Much — or  Nothing 138 

XVII.  In  the  Senatorska 146 

XVIII.  Joseph's  Story 156 

XIX.  The  High-water  Mark 165 

XX.  A  Light  Touch 174 

XXI.  A  Clear  Understanding 183 

XXII.  The  White  Feather 192 

XXIII.  CffiUR  Volant  . ,    .  201 

Y 


CONTENTS 

OHAI'TER  PAGE 

XXIV.  In  the  West  India  Dock  Road 210 

XXV.  The  Captain's  Story 220 

XXVI.  In  the  Spring 229 

XXVII.  A  Sacrifice 238 

XXVIII.  In  the  Pine  woods 248 

XXIX.  In  a  By-way 257 

XXX.  The  Quiet  City 267 

XXXI.  The  Payment 276 

XXXII.  A  Love-letter 285 

XXXIII.  Thin  Ice 295 

XXXIV.  For  Another  Time 304 

XXXV.  Across  the  Frontier 313 

XXXVI.  Captain  Cable  Soils  His  Hands 333 

XXXVII.  The  Parting  of  the  Ways 334 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  WANDA   MADE   NO   ANSWER " Frontispiece 

"'something  has  HAPPENED,'   SAID  WANDA,   QUIETLY "  Facing  p.  130 

"in  a  moment  he  was  at  her  feet" "       166 

"for  a  moment  they  faced  each  other"       ...       "       2S0 


THE    VULTURES 


ALL  AT   SEA 


["R.  JOSEPH  P.  MANGLES,  at  his 
ease  in  a  deck-cliair  on  the  broad  At- 
lantic, was  smoking  a  most  excellent 
cigar.  Mr.  Mangles  was  a  tall,  thin 
man,  who  carried  his  head  in  the  man- 
ner curtly  known  at  a  girls'  school  as 
"  poking."  He  was  a  clean-shaven  man,  with  honj^ 
forehead,  sunken  cheeks,  and  an  underhung  month. 
His  attitude  towards  the  world  was  one  of  patient  dis- 
gust. He  had  the  air  of  pushing  his  way,  chin  first, 
doggedly  through  life.  The  weather  had  been  bad,  and 
was  now  moderating.  But  Mr.  Mangles  had  not  suf- 
fered from  sea-sickness.  He  was  a  dry,  hard  person, 
who  had  suffered  from  nothing  but  chronic  dyspepsia — 
had  suffered  from  it  for  fifty  years  or  so. 

"  Fine  weather,"  he  said.     "  Women  will  be  coming 
on  deck — hang  the  fine  weather." 

And  his  voice  was  deep  and  low  like  a  gi-owl. 
"  Joseph,"    said    Miss    Mangles,    "  growls    over    his 
meals  like  a  dog." 

The  remark  about  the  weather  and  the  women  was 

I 


THE     VULTURES 

addressed  to  a  man  who  leaned  against  the  rail.  In- 
deed, there  was  no  one  else  near — and  the  man  made  no 
reply.  He  was  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  younger  than 
Mr.  Mangles,  and  looked  like  an  Englishman,  but  not 
aggressively  so.  The  large  majority  of  Britons  are 
offensively  British.  Germans  are  no  better ;  so  it  must 
be  racial,  this  offensiveness.  A  Frenchman  is  at  his 
worst,  only  comically  French — a  matter  of  a  smile ;  but 
Teutonic  characteristics  are  conducive  to  hostility. 

The  man  who  leaned  against  the  rail  near  to  Joseph 
P.  Mangles  was  six  feet  high,  and  rather  heavily  built, 
but,  like  many  big  men,  he  seemed  to  take  up  no  more 
than  his  due  share  of  room  in  this  crowded  world. 
There  was  nothing  distinctive  about  his  dress.  His 
demeanor  was  quiet.  When  he  spoke  he  was  habitually 
asked  to  repeat  his  remark,  wdiich  he  did,  with  patience, 
in  the  same  soft,  inaudible  voice. 

There  were  two  men  on  board  this  great  steamer  who 
were  not  business  men — Joseph  P.  Mangles  and  Regi- 
nald Cartoner ;  and,  like  two  ships  on  a  sea  of  commer- 
cial interests,  they  had  drifted  together  during  the 
four  days  that  had  elapsed  since  their  departure  from 
ISTew  York.  Neither  made  anything,  or  sold  anything, 
or  had  a  card  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  ready  for  produc- 
tion at  a  moment's  notice,  setting  forth  name  and  ad- 
dress and  trade.  ISTeither  was  to  be  suspected  of  a  de- 
sire to  repel  advances,  and  yet  both  were  difficult  to 
get  on  with.  For  human  confidences  must  be  mutual. 
It  is  only  to  God  that  man  can  continue  telling,  telling, 
telling,  and  getting  never  a  word  in  return.  These 
two  men  had  nothing  to  tell  their  fellows  about  them- 
selves ;  so  the  other  passengers  drifted  away  into  those 
closely  linked  corporations  characteristic  of  steamey 
life  and  left  them  to  themselves — ^to  each  other. 

2 


ALL     AT     SEA 

And  tliey  had  never  said  thin2;8  to  eacli  other — had 
never,  as  it  were,  got  deeper  than  the  surface  of  their 
daily  life. 

Cartoner  was  a  dreamy  man,  with  absorbed  eyes, 
rather  deeply  sunk  under  a  strong  forehead.  His  eye- 
lids had  that  peculiarity  which  is  rarely  seen  in  the  face 
of  a  man  who  is  a  nonentity.  They  were  quite  straight, 
and  cut  across  the  upper  curve  of  the  pupil.  This  gave 
a  direct,  stern  look  to  dreamy  eyes,  which  was  odd. 
After  a  pause,  he  turned  slowly,  and  looked  down  at  his 
companion  with  a  vague  interrogation  in  his  glance. 
He  seemed  to  be  wondering  whether  Mr.  Mangles  had 
spoken.  And  Mangles  met  the  glance  with  one  of 
steady  refusal  to  repeat  his  remark.  But  Mangles 
spoke  first,  after  all. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the  women  will  be  on  deck  soon — 
and  my  sister  Jooly.    You  don't  know  Jooly  ?" 

He  spoke  with  a  slow  aiid  pleasant  American  accent. 

"  I  saw  you  speaking  to  a  young  lady  in  the  saloon 
after  luncheon,"  said  Cartoner.  "  She  had  a  blue  rib- 
bon round  her  throat.     She  was  pretty." 

"  That  wasn't  Jooly,"  said  Mr.  Mangles,  without 
hesitation. 

"  Who  was  it  ?"  asked  Cartoner,  with  the  simple  di- 
rectness of  those  who  have  no  self-consciousness — who 
are  absorbed,  but  not  in  themselves,  as  are  the  majority 
of  men  and  women. 

"  My  niece,  ISTetty  Cahere." 

"  She  is  pretty,"  said  Cartoner,  with  a  spontaneity 
which  would  have  meant  much  to  feminine  ears. 

"  You'll  fall  in  love  with  her,"  said  Mangles,  lugu- 
briously.   "  They  all  do.     She  says  she  can't  help  it." 

Cartoner  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  has  ears  but 
hears  not.    He  made  no  reply. 


THE     VULTUEES 

"  Distresses  her  very  much/'  concluded  Mangles, 
dexteronsly  shifting  his  cigar  hy  a  movement  of  the 
tongue  from  the  port  to  the  starhoard  side  of  his  mouth. 
Cartoner  did  not  seem  to  he  very  much  interested  in 
Miss  E^etty  Cahere.  He  was  a  man  having  that  air  of 
detachment  from  present  environments  which  is  apt  to 
arouse  curiosity  in  the  human  heart,  more  especially 
in  feminine  hearts.  People  wanted  to  know  what  there 
was  in  Cartoner's  j^ast  that  gave  him  so  much  to  tliink 
about  in  the  present. 

The  two  men  had  not  spoken  again  when  Miss  I^etty 
Cahere  came  on  deck.  She  was  accompanied  by  the 
fourth  officer,  a  clean-built,  clean-shaven  young  man, 
who  lost  his  heart  every  time  he  crossed  the  Atlantic. 
He  was  speaking  rather  earnestly  to  Miss  Cahere,  who 
listened  with  an  expression  of  puzzled  protest  on  her 
pretty  face.  She  had  Avondering  blue  eyes  and  a  com- 
plexion of  the  most  delicate  pink  and  white  which 
never  altered.  She  was  slightly  built,  and  carried  her- 
self in  a  subtly  deprecating  manner,  as  if  her  0A\ai 
opinion  of  herself  were  small,  and  she  wished  the  world 
to  accept  her  at  that  valuation.  She  made  no  sign  of 
having  perceived  her  uncle,  but  nevertheless  dismissed 
the  fourth  officer,  who  reluctantly  mounted  the  ladder 
to  the  bridge,  looking  back  as  he  went. 

Mr.  Mangles  threw  his  cigar  overboard. 

"  She  don't  like  smoke,"  he  growled. 

Cartoner  looked  at  the  cigar,  and  absent-mindedly 
threw  his  cigarette  after  it.  He  had  apparently  not 
made  up  his  mind  whether  to  go  or  stay,  when  Miss 
Cahere  approaclied  her  uncle,  without  appearing  to 
notice  that  he  was  not  alone. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  that  that  was  one  of  the 
officers  of  the  shij),  though  he  was  very  young — quite 

4 


ALL     AT     SEA 

a  boy.  He  was  telling  me  about  his  mother.  It  must 
be  terrible  to  have  a  near  relation  a  sailor." 

She  spoke  in  a  gentle  voice,  and  it  was  evident  that 
she  had  a  heart  full  of  sympathy  for  the  suffering  and 
the  poor. 

"  I  wish  some  of  my  relations  were  sailors,"  replied 
Mr.  Mangles,  in  his  deepest  tones.  "  Could  spare  a 
whole  crew.  Let  me  introduce  my  friend  Mr.  Car- 
toner — Miss  Cahere." 

He  completed  the  introduction  with  an  old-fashioned 
and  ceremonious  wave  of  the  hand.  Miss  Cahere 
smiled  rather  shyly  on  Cartoner,  and  it  was  his  eyes 
that  turned  away  first. 

"  You  have  not  been  down  to  meals,"  he  said,  in  his 
gentle,  abrupt  way. 

"  No ;  but  I  hope  to  come  now.  Are  there  many 
people  ?    Have  you  friends  on  board  ?" 

"  There  are  very  few  ladies.  I  know  none  of 
them." 

"  But  I  dare  say  some  of  them  are  nice,"  said  Miss 
Cahere,  who  evidently  thought  well  of  human  nature. 

"  Very  likely." 

And  Cartoner  lapsed  into  his  odd  and  somewhat  dis- 
concerting thoughtfulness. 

Miss  Cahere  continued  to  glance  at  him  beneath  her 
dark  lashes — dark  lashes  around  blue  eyes — with  a 
guileless  and  wondering  admiration.  He  certainly  was 
a  very  good-looking  man,  well  set  up,  with  that  quiet 
air  which  bespeaks  good  breeding. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  ship  on  the  other  side  ?"  she 
asked,  after  a  pause ;  "  a  sailing  ship.  You  cannot  see 
it  from  here." 

As  she  spoke  she  made  a  little  movement,  as  if  to 
show  him  the  spot  from  whence  the  ship  was  visible. 

5 


THE     VULTUKES 

Cartoner  followod  her  meekly,  and  Mr.  Mangles,  left 
behind  in  his  deck-chair,  slowly  sought  his  cigar-case. 

"  There,"  said  Miss  Caliere,  pointing  ont  a  sail  on 
the  distant  horizon.  "  One  can  hardly  see  it  now. 
When  I  first  came  on  deck  it  was  much  nearer.  That 
ship's  officer  pointed  it  out  to  me." 

Cartoner  looked  at  the  ship  without  much  enthu- 
siasm. 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Cahere,  in  a  lower  voice — she 
had  a  rather  confidential  manner — "  I  think  sailors  are 
very  nice,  don't  you?  But  .  .  .  well,  I  suppose  one 
ought  not  to  say  that,  ought  one  ?" 

"  It  depends  what  you  were  going  to  say." 

Miss  Cahere  laughed,  and  made  no  reply.  Her  laugh 
and  a  glance  seemed,  however,  to  convey  the  comfort- 
able assurance  that  whatever  she  had  been  about  to  say 
would  not  have  been  applicable  to  Cartoner  himself. 
She  glanced  at  his  trim,  upright  figure. 

"  I  think  I  prefer  soldiers,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

Cartoner  murmured  something  inaudible,  and  con- 
tinued to  gaze  at  the  ship  he  had  been  told  to  look  at. 

"  Did  you  know  my  uncle  before  you  came  on  board, 
or  were  you  brave  enough  to  force  him  to  speak  ?  He 
is  so  silent,  you  know,  that  most  people  are  afraid  of 
him.     I  suppose  you  had  met  him  before." 

"  'No.  It  was  a  mere  accident.  Wo  were  neither  of 
us  ill.  We  were  both  hungry,  and  hurried  down  to  a 
meal.    And  the  stewards  placed  us  next  to  each  other." 

Which  was  a  long  explanation,  without  much  in- 
formation in  it. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  you  were  in  the  diplomatic 
service,"  said  Miss  Cahere,  carelessly. 

Eor  an  instant  Cartoner's  eyes  lost  all  their  vague- 
ness.    Either  Miss  Cahere  had  hit  the  mark  with  her 

6 


ALL     AT     SEA 

second  shot,  or  else  he  was  making  a  mental  note  of  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Mangles  belonged  to  that  amiable  body  of 
amateurs,  the  American  Diplomatic  Corps. 

Mr.  Mangles  had  naturally  selected  the  leeward  side 
of  the  deck-house  for  his  seat,  and  Miss  Cahere  had 
brought  Cartoner  round  to  the  weather  side,  where  a 
cold  Atlantic  breeze  made  the  position  untenable. 
Without  explanation,  and  for  her  own  good,  he  led  the 
way  to  a  warmer  quarter.  But  at  the  corner  of  the 
deck-house  a  gaist  caught  Miss  Gahere,  and  held  her 
there  in  a  pretty  attitude,  with  her  two  hands  upraised 
to  her  hat,  looking  at  him  with  frank  and  laughing  eyes, 
and  waiting  for  him  to  come  to  her  assistance.  The  same 
gust  of  wind  made  the  steamer  lurch  so  that  Cartoner 
had  to  grasp  Miss  Cahere's  arm  to  save  her  from  falling. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  quietly,  and  with  downcast 
eyes,  when  the  incident  had  passed.  For  in  some  mat- 
ters she  held  old-fashioned  notions,  and  was  not  one  of 
the  modern  race  of  hail-fellow-well-met  girls  who  are 
friendly  in  five  minutes  with  men  and  women  alike. 

When  she  came  within  sight  of  her  uncle,  she  sud- 
denly hurried  towards  him,  and  made  an  affectionate, 
laughing  attempt  to  prevent  his  returning  his  cigar- 
case  to  his  jacket  pocket.  She  even  took  possession  of 
the  cigar-case,  opened  it,  and  with  her  own  fingers 
selected  a  cigar. 

"  ISTo,"  she  said,  firmly,  "  you  are  going  to  smoke 
again  at  once.  Do  you  think  I  did  not  see  you  throw 
away  the  other  ?  Mr.  Cartoner — is  it  not  foolish  of 
him?  Because  I  once  said,  without  reflecting,  that  I 
did  not  care  about  the  smell  of  tobacco,  he  never  lets 
me  see  him  smoke  now." 

As  she  spoke  she  laid  her  hand  affectionately  on  the 
old  man's  shoulder  and  looked  down  at  him. 

7 


THE     VULTUEES 

"  As  if  it  mattered  whether  I  like  it  or  not,"  she  said. 
"  And  I  do  like  it — I  like  the  smell  of  your  cigars." 

Mr.  Mangles  looked  from  Cartoner  to  his  niece  with 
an  odd  smile,  which  was  perhaps  the  only  way  in  which 
that  lean  countenance  could  express  tenderness. 

"  As  if  it  mattered  what  I  think/'  she  said,  humbly, 
again. 

"  Always  like  to  conciliate  a  lady,"  said  Mr.  Man- 
gles, in  his  deep  voice. 

"  Especially  when  that  lady  is  dependent  on  you  for 
her  daily  bread  and  her  frocks,"  answered  Netty,  in 
an  affectionate  aside,  which  Cartoner  was,  nevertheless, 
able  to  overhear. 

"  Where  is  your  aunt  Jooly  ?"  inquired  the  old  man, 
hurriedly.     "  I  thought  she  was  coming  on  deck." 

"  So  she  is,"  answered  I^etty.  "  I  left  her  in  the 
saloon.  She  is  quite  well.  She  was  talking  to  some 
people." 

"What,  already?"  ejaculated  the  lady's  brotlier. 
And  I^etty  nodded  her  head  with  a  mystic  gravity. 
She  was  looking  towards  the  saloon  stairway,  from 
whence  she  seemed  to  expect  Miss  Mangles. 

"  My  sister  Jooly,  sir,"  explained  Mr.  Mangles  to 
Cartoner,  "  is  no  doubt  known  to  you — Miss  Julia  P. 
Mangles,  of  N"ew  York  City." 

Cartoner  tried  to  look  as  if  he  had  heard  the  name 
before.  He  had  lived  in  the  United  States  during  some 
months,  and  he  knew  that  it  is  possible  to  be  famous 
in  ISTew  York  and  quite  without  honor  in  Connecticut. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  not  come  into  your  line  of  coun- 
try ?"  suggested  Mr.  Mangles,  not  unkindly, 

"  E'o— I  think  not." 

"  Her  line  is — at  present — prisons." 

"  I  have  never  been  in  prison,"  replied  Cartoner. 

8 


ALL     AT     SEA 

"  ISTo  doubt  jou  will  get  experience  in  conrse  of  time," 
said  Mr.  Mangles,  with  his  deep,  curt  laugh.  "  No,  sir, 
mj  sister  is  a  lecturer.  She  gets  on  platforms  and 
talks." 

"  What  about  ?"  asked  Cartoner. 

Mr.  Mangles  described  the  wide  world,  with  a  grace- 
ful wave  of  his  cigai*. 

"  About  most  things,"  he  answered,  gravely ;  "  chief- 
ly about  women,  I  take  it.  She  is  great  on  the  employ- 
ment of  women,  and  the  payment  of  them.  And  she  is 
right  there.  She  has  got  hold  of  the  right  end  of  the 
stick  there.  She  has  found  out  what  very  few  women 
know — namely,  that  when  women  work  for  nothing, 
they  are  giving  away  something  that  nobody  wants. 
So  Jooly  goes  about  the  world  lecturing  on  women's 
employment,  and  pointing  out  to  the  public  and  the  ad- 
ministration many  ways  in  which  women  may  be  profit- 
ably employed  and  paid.  She  leaves  it  to  the  gumption 
of  the  government  to  discover  for  themselves  that  there 
is  many  a  nice  berth  for  which  Jooly  P.  Mangles  is 
eminently  suited,  but  governments  have  no  gumption, 
sir.     And — " 

"  Here  is  Aunt  Julie,"  interrupted  Miss  Cahere, 
walking  away. 

Mr.  Mangles  gave  a  short  sigh,  and  lapsed  into  si- 
lence. 

As  Miss  Cahere  went  forward,  she  passed  another 
officer  of  the  ship,  the  second  in  command,  a  dogged, 
heavy  man,  whose  mind  was  given  to  the  ship  and  his 
own  career.  He  must  have  seen  something  to  interest 
him  in  Netty  Cahere's  face  —  perhaps  he  caught  a 
glance  from  the  dark-lashed  eyes — for  he  turned  and 
looked  at  her  again,  with  a  sudden,  dull  light  in  his 
face. 

9 


11 

SIGNAL  HOUSE 

'HERE  Gravesend  merges  into  !N^ortli- 
flcet — where  the  spicy  odors  of  chem- 
ical-fertilizing works  mingle  with  the 
dry  dust  of  the  cement  manufactories 
which  throw  their  tall  chimneys  into 
an  ever-gray  sky — there  stands  a  house 
known  as  the  Signal  House.  Why  it  is  so  called  no  one 
knows  and  very  few  care  to  inquire.  It  is  presumably 
a  square  house  of  the  Jacobean  period — presumably 
because  it  is  so  hidden  by  trees,  so  wrapped  in  gi'imy 
ivy,  so  dust-laden  and  so  impossible  to  get  at,  that  its 
outward  form  is  no  longer  to  be  perceived. 

It  is  within  sound  of  the  bells  that  jingle  dismally 
on  the  heads  of  the  tram-car  horses,  plying  their  trade 
on  the  high-road,  and  yet  it  is  haunted.  Its  two  great 
iron  gates  stand  on  the  very  pavement,  and  they  are 
never  opened.  Indeed,  a  generation  or  two  of  painters 
have  painted  them  shut,  and  grime  and  dirt  have  laid 
their  seals  uj)on  the  hinges.  A  side  gate  gives  entrance 
to  such  as  come  on  foot.  A  door  in  the  wall,  up  an  al- 
ley, is  labelled  "  Tradesman's  Entrance,"  but  the  trades- 
men never  linger  there.  'No  merry  milkman  leaves  the 
latest  gossip  with  his  thin,  blue  milk  on  that  threshold. 
The  butcher's  chariot  wheels  never  tarry  at  the  corner 
of  that  alley.    Indeed,  the  local  butcher  has  no  chariot. 

10 


SIGNAL     HOUSE 

His  clients  mostly  come  in  a  shawl,  and  take  their  pur- 
chases away  with  them  wrapped  in  a  doubtful  news- 
paper beneath  its  folds.  The  better-class  buyers  wear 
a  cloth  cricketing  cap,  coquettishly  attached  to  a  knob 
of  hair  by  a  hat-pin. 

The  milkman,  moreover,  is  not  a  merry  man,  hurry- 
ing on  his  rounds.  He  goes  slowly  and  pessimistical- 
ly, and  likes  to  see  the  halfpenny  before  he  tij)s  his 
measure. 

This,  in  a  word,  is  a  poor  district,  where  no  one 
would  live  if  he  could  live  elsewhere,  with  the  Signal 
House  stranded  in  the  midst  of  it — a  noble  wi'eck  on  a 
barren,  social  shore.  For  the  Signal  House  was  once  a 
family  mansion;  later  it  was  described  as  a  riverside 
residence,  then  as  a  quaint  and  interesting  demesne. 
Finally  its  price  fell  with  a  crash,  and  an  elderly  lady 
of  weak  intellect  was  sent  by  her  relations  to  live  in  it, 
with  two  servants,  w^ho  were  frequently  to  be  met  in 
Gravesend  in  the  evening  hours,  at  which  time,  it  is  to 
be  presumed,  the  elderly  lady  of  w^eak  intellect  was 
locked  in  the  Signal  House  alone.  But  the  house 
never  had  a  ghost.  Haunted  houses  very  seldom  have. 
The  ghost  was  the  mere  invention  of  some  kitchen- 
maid. 

Haunted  or  not,  the  house  stood  empty  for  years, 
until  suddenly  a  foreigner  took  it — a  Russian  banker, 
it  was  understood.  A  very  nice,  pleasant-spoken  little 
gentleman  this  foreigner,  who  liked  quiet  and  the  river 
view.  He  was  quite  as  broad  as  he  was  long,  though 
he  was  not  preposterously  stout.  There  was  nothing 
mysterious  about  him.  He  was  well  known  in  the  City. 
He  had  merely  mistalcen  an  undesirable  suburb  for  a 
desirable  one,  a  very  easy  mistalvc  for  a  foreigner  to 
make;  and  he  was  delighted  at  the  cheapness  of  the 

11 


THE    VULTURES 

Providence,  for  he  had  «°   «*^  ^^j^^^         Then 

House  occasionally  from  Sati"  l»y  t'^'  ^j^  ^^^ 

he  gave  it  up  altogether,  ™d  t^d  to  s^  ^^_ 

,^pty  for  some  years,  ™1"!« jK~"y  elsewhere, 
tended  his  business  and  lived  ^^'J  ;„  ,,  , 
Then  he  suddenly  ^eg-  --J  ««  'X;;;;„%,„,,t,, 
house  of  recreation,  ^^ ';;^'tl  ^^servants,  to 
and  his  foreigii  friends  and  tlieu 
rtay  from  Saturday  till  Monday.  Continental 

And  all  these  persons  behaved  "^  ™  °d^;  \^  ^  ^f  th^ 
way,  and  played  ^o^^^^^^Jrc^^dt anthem  hut 
house  on  Sundays.  The  '^^'S;^"  ;^„^^,  „f  the  grimy 
could  see  nothing,  owing  to  the  «»«'^"'=''  ^„  „„e 

trees  and  the  height  o    the  old  ^^L  walh    B^^    ^^^^^ 

worried  much  ^^f  "V     1  aTa  ouiid    akd  had  I  earn 
a  busy  people  .*o  lived  ^1  -;™;;  ™^„a  persistent 

their  living    '^  ^^ii^'^  ^^^rft  Jent  duFt  and  the 
assuagement  of  a  thubt  W„oli  ^^^^  ^^^^_ 

pungent  smell  of  l^"""  "r"];-    ^^ne  m^  ^^^^. 

•?        t.  tliP  foreia-n  -eiitleman's  possessions. 
osity  as  to  the  loreign  t^t;^     ^  i  Graves- 

4en  he  came  he  drove  in  a  c^^^  «*J°  ^,^^„  ,,;, 


SIGNAL    HOUSE 

in  a  second  cab,  carried  some  parcels,  presumably  of 
refreshments.  These  grave  gentlemen  were,  it  ap- 
peared, abont  to  enjoy  a  picnic  at  the  Signal  House — 
possibly  a  tea-picnic  in  the  Russian  fashion. 

The  afternoon  was  fine,  and  the  gentlemen  walked 
in  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house.  They  were 
walking  thus  when  another  cab  stopped  at  the  closed 
iron  gate,  and  the  banker  hurried,  as  fast  as  his  build 
would  allow,  to  open  the  side  door  and  admit  a  sea- 
faring man,  who  seemed  to  know  his  bearings. 

"  Well,  mister,"  he  said,  in  a  !N"orthern  voice,  "  an- 
other of  your  little  jobs  ?" 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  the  banker  paid  the 
cabman.  When  the  vehicle  had  gone  the  host  turned  to 
his  guest  and  replied  to  the  question. 

"  Yes,  my  fren',''  he  said,  "  another  of  my  little  jobs. 
I  hope  you  are  well.  Captain  Cable  ?" 

But  Captain  Cable  was  not  a  man  to  waste  words 
over  the  social  conventions.  He  was  obviously  well — 
as  well  as  a  hard,  seafaring  life  will  make  a  man  who 
lives  simply  and  works  hard.  He  was  a  short  man, 
with  a  red  face  washed  very  clean,  and  very  well 
shaven,  except  for  a  little  piece  of  beard  left  fantasti- 
cally at  the  base  of  his  chin.  His  eyes  were  blue  and 
bright,  like  gimlets.  He  may  have  had  a  soft  heart, 
but  it  was  certainly  hidden  beneath  a  hard  exterior. 
He  wore  a  thick  coat  of  blue  pilot-cloth,  not  because 
the  July  day  was  cold,  but  because  it  was  his  best  coat. 
His  hat  was  carefully  brushed  and  of  hard,  black  felt. 
It  had  perhaps  been  the  height  of  fashion  in  Sunder- 
land five  years  earlier.  He  wore  no  gloves — Captain 
Cable  drew  the  line  there.  As  for  the  rest,  he  had  put 
on  that  which  he  called  his  shore-going  rig. 

"  And  yourself  ?"  he  answered,  mechanically. 

13 


THE     VULTURES 

"  I  am  very  well,  thank  you,"  replied  the  polite 
banker,  who,  it  will  have  been  perceived,  was  nameless 
to  Captain  Cable,  as  he  is  to  the  reader.  The  truth  be- 
ing that  his  name  was  so  absurdly  and  egregiously  Rus- 
sian that  the  plain  English  tongues  never  embarked  on 
that  sea  of  consonants.  "  It  is  an  affair,  as  usual.  My 
friends  are  here  to  meet  you,  but  I  think  they  do  not 
speak  English,  except  your  colleague,  the  other  captain, 
who  speaks  a  little — a  very  little." 

As  he  spoke  he  led  the  way  to  the  garden,  where 
three  gentlemen  were  awaiting  them. 

"  This  is  Captain  Cable,"  he  said,  and  the  three  gen- 
tlemen raised  their  hats,  much  to  the  captain's  dis- 
comfiture. He  did  not  hold  by  foreign  ways ;  but  he 
dragged  his  hat  off  and  then  expectorated  on  the  lawn, 
just  to  show  that  he  felt  quite  at  home.  He  even  took 
the  lead  in  the  conversation. 

"  Tell  'em,"  he  said,  "  that  I'm  a  plain  man  from 
Sun'land  that  has  a  speciality,  an'  that's  transshipping 
cargo  at  sea,  but  me  hands  are  clean." 

He  held  them  out  and  they  were  not,  so  he  must  have 
spoken  metaphorically. 

The  banker  translated,  addressing  himself  to  one  of 
his  companions,  rather  markedly  and  with  much  defer- 
ence. 

"  You're  speakin'  French,"  interrupted  Captain 
Cable. 

"  Yes,  my  fren',  I  am.    Do  you  know  French  ?" 

"  Not  me,"  returned  Captain  Cable,  affably. 
"  They're  all  one  to  me.     They're  all  damn  nonsense." 

He  was,  it  seemed,  that  which  is  called  in  these  days 
of  blatant  jjatriotism  a  thorough  Englishman,  or  a  true 
Blue,  according  to  the  social  station  of  the  speaker. 

The  gentleman  to  whom  the  translation  had  been 

14 


1 


SIGNAL     HOUSE 

addressed  smiled.  He  was  a  tall  and  rather  dis- 
tiiigiiishcd-looking  man,  with  bushy  white  hair  and 
mustache.  His  features  were  square-cut  and  strong. 
His  eyes  were  dark,  and  he  had  an  easy  smile.  He  led 
the  way  to  some  chairs  which  had  been  placed  near  a 
table  at  the  far  end  of  the  lawn  beneath  a  cedar-tree, 
and  his  manner  had  something  faintly  regal  in  it,  as 
if  in  his  daily  life  he  had  always  been  looked  up  to  and 
obeyed  without  question. 

"  Tell  him  that  we  also  are  plain  men  with  clean 
hands,"  he  said. 

And  the  banker  rej)lied : 
"  Oui,  mon  Prince." 

But  the  interpretation  was  taken  out  of  his  mouth  by 
one  of  the  others,  the  youngest  of  the  group — a  merry- 
eyed  youth,  with  a  fluffy,  fair  mustache  and  close- 
cropped,  flaxen  hair. 

"  My  father,"  he  said,  in  perfect  English,  "  says  that 
we  also  are  plain  men,  and  that  your  hands  will  not  be 
hurt  by  touching  ours," 

He  held  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  refused  to 
withdraw  it  until  it  had  been  grasped,  rather  shame- 
facedly, by  Captain  Cable,  who  did  not  like  these  ef- 
fusive foreign  ways,  but,  nevertheless,  rather  liked  the 
young  man. 

The  banker  ranged  the  chairs  round  the  table,  and 
the  oddly  assorted  group  seated  themselves.  The  man 
who  had  not  yet  spoken,  and  who  sat  down  last,  was 
obviously  a  sailor.  His  face  was  burned  a  deep  brown, 
and  was  mostly  hidden  by  a  closely  cut  beard.  He  had 
the  slow  ways  of  a  ]^ortherner,  the  abashed  manner  of 
a  merchant  skipper  on  shore.  The  mark  of  the  other 
element  was  so  plainly  written  upon  him  that  Captain 
Cable  looked  at  him  hard  and  then  nodded.     Without 

15 


THE     VULTUKES 

being  invited  to  do  so  they  sat  next  to  each  other  at  one 
side  of  the  table,  and  faced  the  three  landsmen.  Again 
Captain  Cable  spoke  first. 

"  Provided  it's  nothing  underhand,"  he  said,  "  I'm 
ready  and  willing.  Or'nary  risks  of  the  sea.  Queen's 
enemies,  act  o'  God — them's  my  risks!  I  am  un- 
insured.    Ship's  my  own.    I  don't  mind  explosives — " 

"  There  are  explosives,"  admitted  the  banker. 

"  Then  they  must  be  honest  explosives,  or  they  don't 
go  below  my  hatches.  Explosives  that's  to  blow  a  man 
up  honest,  before  his  face." 

"  There  are  cartridges,"  said  the  young  man  who 
had  shaken  hands. 

"  That  '11  do,"  said  the  masterful  sailor.  And  point- 
ing a  thick  finger  towards  the  banker,  added,  "  Now, 
mister,"  and  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

"  It  is  a  very  simple  matter,"  explained  the  banker, 
in  a  thick,  suave  voice.  "  We  have  a  cargo — a  greater 
part  of  it  weight,  though  there  is  some  measurement — 
a  few  cases  of  light  goods,  clothing,  and  such.  You 
will  load  in  the  river,  and  all  will  be  sent  to  you  in 
lighters.  There  is  nothing  heavy,  nothing  large.  There 
is  also  no  insurance,  you  understand.  What  falls  out 
of  the  slings  and  is  lost  overside  is  lost." 

The  banker  paused  for  breath. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Captain  Cable.  "  It's  the  same 
with  me  and  my  ship.  There  is  no  insurance,  no  trick- 
ing underwriters  into  unusual  risks.  It's  neck  or  noth- 
ing with  me." 

And  he  looked  hard  at  the  breathless  banker,  with 
whom  it  was,  in  this  respect,  nothing. 

"  I  understand  right  enough,"  he  added,  with  an  af- 
fable nod  to  the  three  foreigners. 

"  You  will   sail  from   London  with   a  full  general 

16 


SIGNAL    HOUSE 

cargo  for  Malmo  or  Stockholm,  or  somewhere  where 
officials  are  not  too  wide-awake.  You  meet  in  the 
N^orth  Sea,  at  a  point  to  be  fixed  betw^een  your- 
selves, the  OJaf,  Captain  Petersen — sitting  by  your 
side." 

Captain  Cable  turned  and  gravely  shook  hands  with 
Captain  Petersen, 

"  Thought  you  was  a  seafaring  man,"  he  said.  And 
Captain  Petersen  replied  that  he  was  "  Vair  pleased." 

"  The  cargo  is  to  be  transshipped  at  sea,  out  of  sight 
of  land  or  lightship.  But  that  we  can  safely  leave  to 
you.  Captain  Cable." 

"  I  don't  deny,"  replied  that  mariner,  who  was  meas- 
uring Captain  Petersen  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
"  that  I  have  been  there  before." 

"  You  can  then  go  up  the  Baltic  in  ballast  to  some 
small  port — just  a  saw^nill,  at  the  head  of  a  fjord — 
where  I  shall  have  a  carsjo  of  timber  waitino-  for  vou  to 
bring  back  to  London.  When  can  you  begin  loading, 
cajDtain  ?" 

"  To-morrow,"  replied  the  captain.  "  Ship's  lying 
in  the  river  now,  and  if  these  gentlemen  W'Ould  like  to 
see  her,  she's  as  handy  a — " 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  we  shall  have  time  for  that !" 
put  in  the  banker,  hastily.  "  And  now  w^e  must  leave 
you  and  Captain  Petersen  to  settle  your  meeting-place. 
You  have  your  charts  ?" 

By  way  of  response  the  captain  produced  from  his 
pocket  sundry  folded  papers,  which  he  laid  tenderly 
on  the  table.  For  the  last  ten  years  he  had  been  post- 
poning the  necessity  of  buying  new  charts  of  certain 
sections  of  the  North  Sea.  He  looked  round  at  the  high 
walls  and  the  overhanging  trees. 

"  Hope    the    wind    don't    come    blustering    in    here 
2  ^^ 


THE     VULTUEES 

much,"   lie  said,   apprehensively,    as  lie  unfolded  the 
ragged  papers  with  great  caution. 

The  fair-haired  young  man  drew  forward  his  chair, 
and  Ca]>lo,  seeing  the  action,  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  Seafaring  man  ?"  he  inquired,  with  a  weight  of 
doubt  and  distrust  in  his  voice. 

"  I^ot  by  profession,  only  for  fun." 

"  Fun  ?  Man  and  boy,  I've  used  the  sea  forty  years, 
and  I  haven't  yet  found  out  where  the  fun  comes 
in!" 

"  This  gentleman,"  explained  the  banker,  "  his  Ex — 
Mr. — "  He  paused,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
white-haired  gentleman. 

"  Mr.  Martin." 

"  Mr.  Martin  will  be  on  board  the  Olaf  when 
you  meet  Captain  Petersen  in  the  North  Sea.  He 
will  act  as  interpreter.  You  remember  that  Captain 
Petersen  speaks  no  English,  and  you  do  not  know  his 
lang-uage.  The  two  crews,  I  understand,  will  be  simi- 
larly placed.  Captain  Petersen  undertakes  to  have  no 
one  on  board  sjieaking  English.  And  your  crew,  my 
fren'  ?" 

"  My  crew  oomes  from  Sun'lan'.  Men  that  only, 
speak  English,  and  precious  little  of  that,"  replied  Cap- 
tain Cable. 

He  had  his  finger  on  the  chart,  but  paused  and  looked 
up,  fixing  his  bright  glance  on  the  face  of  the  white- 
haired  gentleman. 

"  There's  one  thing  —  I'm  a  plain  -  spoken  man 
myself  —  what  is  there  for  us  two  —  us  seafaring 
men  ?" 

"  There  is  five  hundred  pounds  for  each  of  you,"  re- 
plied the  white-haired  gentleman  for  himself,  in  slow 
and  careful  English. 

18 


SIGNAL     HOUSE 

Captain  Cable  nodded  his  grizzled  head  over  the 
chart. 

"  I  like  to  deal  with  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  gruffly. 

"  And  so  do  I,"  replied  the  white-haired  foreigner, 
with  a  how. 

Captain  Cable  grunted  audibly. 


m 

A   SPECIALTY 

MUDDY  sea  and  a  dirty  gray  sky,  a 
cold  rain  and  a  moaning  wind.  Short- 
capped  waves  breaking  to  leeward  in  a 
little  hiss  of  spray.  The  water  itself 
sandy  and  discolored.  Far  away  to 
the  east,  where  the  green-gray  and  the 
dirty  gray  merge  into  one,  a  windmill  spinning  in  the 
breeze — Holland.  J^ear  at  hand,  standing  in  the  sea, 
the  picture  of  wet  and  disconsolate  solitude,  a  little 
beacon,  erect  on  three  legs,  like  a  bandbox  affixed  to  a 
giant  easel.  It  is  alight,  although  it  is  broad  daylight ; 
for  it  is  always  alight,  always  gravely  revolving,  night 
and  day,  alone  on  this  sandbank  in  the  I^orth  Sea.  It 
is  tended  once  in  three  weeks.  The  lamp  is  filled ;  the 
wick  is  trimmed ;  the  screen,  which  is  ingeniously 
made  to  revolve  by  the  heat  of  the  lamp,  is  lubricated, 
and  the  beacon  is  left  to  its  solitude  and  its  work. 

There  must  be  land  to  the  eastward,  though  nothing 
but  the  spinning  mill  is  visible.  The  land  is  below  the 
level  of  the  sea.  There  is  probably  an  entrance  to  some 
canal  behind  the  moving  sandbank.  This  is  one  of  the 
waste-places  of  the  world — a  place  left  clean  on  sailors' 
charts;  no  one  passes  that  way.  These  banks  are  as 
deadly  as  many  rocks  which  have  earned  for  them- 
selves a  dreaded  name  in  maritime  story.     For  they 

20 


A     SPECIALTY 

never  relinquish  anything  that  touches  them.  They 
are  soft  and  gentle  in  their  embrace ;  they  slowly  suck 
in  the  ship  that  comes  within  their  grasp.  Their  story 
is  a  long,  grim  tale  of  disaster.  Their  treasure  is  vast 
and  stored  beneath  a  weight,  half  sand,  half  water, 
which  must  ever  baffle  the  ingenuity  of  man.  Fog,  the 
sailors'  deadliest  foe,  has  its  home  on  these  waters,  ris- 
ing on  the  low^-lying  lands  and  creeping  out  to  sea, 
where  it  blows  to  and  fro  for  weeks  and  weeks  together. 
When  all  the  world  is  blue  and  sunny,  fog-banks  lie 
like  a  sheet  of  cotton-wool  on  these  coasts. 

"  Barrin'  fogs — always  barrin'  fogs !"  Captain  Cable 
had  said  as  his  last  word  on  leaving  the  Signal  House. 
"  If  ye  wait  a  month,  never  move  in  a  fog  in  these 
waters,  or  ye'll  move  straight  to  Davy  Jones !" 

And  chance  favored  him,  for  a  gale  of  wind  came 
instead  of  a  fog,  one  of  those  May  gales  that  sweep 
down  from  the  northwest  without  warning  or  reason. 

At  sunset  the  Olaf  had  crept  cautiously  in  from  the 
west — a  high-prowed,  well-decked,  square-rigged  steam- 
er of  the  old  school,  with  her  name  written  large  amid- 
ships and  her  side-lights  set  aft.  Captain  Petersen  was 
a  cautious  man,  and  came  on  with  the  leadsman  work- 
ing like  a  clock.  He  was  a  man  who  moved  slowly. 
And  at  sea,  as  in  life,  he  who  moves  slowly  often  runs 
many  dangers  which  a  greater  confidence  and  a  little 
dash  would  avoid.  He  who  moves  slowly  is  the  prey 
of  every  current. 

Captain  Petersen  steamed  in  behind  the  beacon.  He 
sighted  the  winchuill  very  carefully,  very  correctly, 
very  cautiously.  He  described  a  half-circle  round  the 
bank  hidden  a  few  feet  below  the  muddy  water.  Then 
he  steamed  slowly  seawards,  keeping  the  windmill  full 
astern  and  the  beacon  on  his  port  quarter.     When  the 

21 


THE     VULTURES 

beacon  was  bearing  southeast  he  rang  the  engine-room 
bell.  The  steamer,  hardly  moving  before,  stopped  dead, 
its  bluff  nose  turned  to  the  wind  and  the  rustling  waves. 
Then  Captain  Petersen  held  up  his  hand  to  the  first 
mate,  who  was  on  the  high  forecastle,  and  the  anchor 
splashed  over.  The  Olaf  was  anchored  at  the  head  of 
a  submarine  bay.  She  had  shoal  water  all  round  her, 
and  no  vessel  could  get  at  her  unless  it  came  as  she  had 
come.  The  sun  went  down,  and  the  red-gray  clouds  in 
the  stormy  west  slowly  faded  into  night.  There  was  no 
land  in  sight.  Even  the  whirligig  windmill  was  below 
the  horizon  now.  Only  the  three-legged  beacon  stood 
near,  turning  its  winking,  wondering  eye  round  the 
waste  of  waters. 

Here  the  Olaf  rode  out  the  gale  that  raged  all  through 
the  night,  and  in  the  morning  there  was  no  peace,  for  it 
still  rained  and  the  northwest  wind  still  blew  hard. 
There  was  no  depth  of  water,  however,  to  make  a  sea 
big  enough  to  affect  large  vessels.  The  Olaf  rode 
easily  enough,  and  only  pitched  her  nose  into  the  yel- 
low sea  from  time  to  time,  throwing  a  cloud  of  spray 
over  the  length  of  her  decks,  like  a  bird  at  its  bath. 

Soon  after  daylight  the  Prince  Martin  Bukaty  came 
on  deck,  gay  and  lively  in  his  borrowed  oilskins.  His 
blue  eyes  laughed  in  the  shadow  of  the  black  sou'wester 
tied  down  over  his  eyes,  his  slight  form  was  lost  in  the 
ample  folds  of  Captain  Petersen's  best  oilskin  coat. 

"  It  remains  to  be  seen,"  he  said,  peering  out  into  the 
rain  and  spray,  "  whether  that  little  man  will  come  tc 
us  in  this." 

"  He  will  come,"  said  Captain  Petersen. 

Prince  Martin  Bukaty  laughed.  He  laughed  at  most 
things — at  the  timidity  and  caution  of  this  ISTorse  cap- 
tain, at  good  weather,  at  bad  weather,  at  life  as  he 

22 


A     SPECIALTY 

found  it.  He  was  one  of  those  few  and  happy  people 
who  find  life  a  joy  and  his  fellow-heing  a  hnge  joke. 
Some  will  say  that  it  is  easy  enough  to  be  gay  at  the 
threshold  of  life ;  but  experience  tells  that  gayety  is  an 
inward  sun  which  shines  through  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  a  journey  which  has  assuredly  more  bad 
weather  than  good.  The  gayest  are  not  those  who  can 
be  pointed  out  as  the  happiest.  Indeed,  the  happiest 
are  those  who  appear  to  have  nothing  to  make  them 
happy.  Martin  Bukaty  might,  for  instance,  have 
chosen  a  better  abode  than  the  stuffy  cabin  of  a  Scandi- 
navian cargo-boat  and  cheerier  comiDanions  than  a  grim 
pair  of  E'orse  seamen.  He  might  have  sought  a  bluer 
sky  and  a  bluer  sea,  and  yet  he  stood  on  the  dripping 
deck  and  laughed.  He  clapped  Captain  Petersen  on 
the  back. 

"  Well,  we  have  got  here  and  we  have  ridden  out  the 
worst  of  it,  and  we  haven't  dragged  our  anchors  and  no- 
body has  seen  us,  and  that  exceedingly  amusing  little 
ca23tain  will  be  here  in  a  few  hours.  Why  look  so 
gloomy,  my  friend  ?" 

Captain  Petersen  shook  the  rain  from  the  brim  of 
his  sou'wester. 

"  We  are  putting  our  necks  within  a  rope,"  he  said. 

"  ^ot  your  neck — only  mine,"  replied  Martin.  ''^  It 
is  a  necktie  that  one  gets  accustomed  to.  Look  at  my 
father !  One  rarely  sees  an  old  man  so  free  from  care. 
How  he  laughs !  how  he  enjoys  his  dinner  and  his  wine  ! 
The  wine  runs  do^vn  a  man's  throat  none  the  less  pleas- 
antly because  there  is  a  loose  rope  around  it.  And  ho 
has  played  a  dangerous  game  all  his  life — that  old  man, 
eh?" 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you,"  said  Captain  Petersen, 
gravely,    turning   his   gloomy   eyes   towards   his   com- 

23 


THE     VULTURES 

panion.  "  A  prince  does  not  get  shot  or  hanged  or  sent 
to  the  bottom  in  the  high  seas." 

"  Ah !  yon  think  that,"  said  Prince  Martin,  mom  en  - 
tarilv  grave.    "  One  can  never  tell," 

Then  he  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Come !"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  aloft  to  look  for  that 
English  boat.  Come  on  to  the  fore-yard.  We  can 
watch  him  come  in — that  little  bulldog  of  a  man." 

"  If  he  has  any  sense  he  will  wait  in  the  open  un- 
til this  gale  is  over,"  grumbled  Petersen,  nevertheless 
following  his  companion  forward. 

"  He  has  only  one  sense,  that  man — a  sense  of  in- 
finite feai'lessness." 

"  He  is  probably  afraid — "  Captain  Petersen 
paused  to  hoist  himself  laboriously  on  to  the  rail. 

"  Of  what  ?"  inquired  Martin,  looking  through  the 
ratlines. 

"  Of  a  woman." 

And  Martin  Bukaty's  answer  was  lost  in  the  roar  of 
the  wind  as  he  went  aloft. 

They  lay  on  the  fore-yard  for  half  an  hour,  talking 
from  time  to  time  in  breathless  monosyllables,  for  the 
wind  was  gathering  itself  together  for  that  last  effort 
which  usually  denotes  the  end  of  a  gale.  Then  Captain 
Petersen  pointed  his  steady  hand  almost  straight  ahead. 
On  the  gray  horizon  a  little  column  of  smoke  rose  like 
a  pillar.    It  was  a  steamer  approaching  before  the  wind. 

Captain  Cable  came  on  at  a  great  pace.  His  ship 
was  very  low  in  the  water,  and  kicked  up  awkwardly 
on  a  following  sea.  He  swimg  round  the  beacon  on  the 
shoulder  of  a  great  wave  that  turned  him  over  till  the 
rounded  wet  sides  of  the  steamer  gleamed  like  a  whale's 
back.  He  disappeared  into  the  haze  nearer  the  land, 
and  presently  emerged  again  astern  of  the  Olaf,  a  black 

24 


A     SPECIALTY 

nozzle  of  iron  and  an  intermittent  fan  of  spray.  He 
was  crashing  into  the  seas  at  full  speed — a  very  differ- 
ent kind  of  sailor  to  the  careful  captain  of  the  Olaf, 
His  low  decks  were  clear,  and  each  sea  leaped  over  the 
bow  and  washed  aft — green  and  white.  As  the  little 
steamer  came  do^vn  he  suddenly  slackened  speed,  and 
waved  his  hand  as  he  stood  alone  on  the  high  bridge. 

Then  two  or  tlu-ee  oilskin-clad  figures  crept  forward 
into  the  spray  that  still  broke  over  the  bows.  The  crew 
of  the  Olaf,  crowding  to  the  rail,  looked  dowii  on  the 
deeply  laden  little  vessel  from  the  height  of  their  dry 
and  steady  deck.  They  watched  the  men  working 
quickly  almost  under  water  on  the  low  forecastle,  and 
saw  that  it  was  good.  Captain  Cable  stood  swaying  on 
the  bridge — a  little,  square  figure  in  gleaming  oilskins 
— and  said  no  word.     He  had  a  picked  crew. 

He  passed  ahead  of  the  Olaf  and  anchored  there, 
paying  out  cable  as  if  he  were  going  to  ride  out  a 
cyclone.  The  steamer  had  no  name  visible,  a  sail  hang- 
ing carelessly  over  the  stern  completely  hid  name  and 
port  of  registry.  Her  forward  name-boards  had  been 
removed.  Whatever  his  business  was,  this  seaman 
knew  it  well. 

'No  sooner  was  his  anchor  down  than  Captain  Cable 
began  to  lower  a  boat,  and  Petersen,  seeing  the  action, 
broke  into  mild  Scandinavian  profanity.  "  He  is  going 
to  try  and  get  to  us !"  he  said,  pessimistically,  and  went 
forward  to  give  the  necessary  orders.  He  knew  hia 
business,  too,  this  Northern  sailor,  and  when,  after  a 
long  struggle,  the  boat  containing  Captain  Cable  and 
two  men  came  within  reach,  a  rope — cleverly  thrown — • 
coiled  out  into  the  flying  scud  and  fell  pliunp  across 
the  captain's  face. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  scrambled  on  to  the  deck  of 

25 


THE     VULTUEES 

the  Olaf  and  shook  hands  with  Captain  Petersen.  He 
did  not  at  once  recognize  Prince  Martin,  who  held  out 
his  hand. 

"  Glad  to  see  yon,  Captain  Cable,"  he  said.  Cable 
finished  drying  the  salt  water  from  his  face  with  a  blue 
cotton  handkerchief  before  he  shook  hands. 

"  Suppose  you  thought  I  wasn't  coming,"  he  said,  sus- 
piciously. 

"  No,  I  knew  you  would." 

"  Glad  to  see  me  for  my  own  sake  ?"  suggested  the 
captain,  grimly  smiling. 

"  Yes,  it  always  does  one  good  to  see  a  man,"  an- 
swered Prince  Martin. 

"  They  tell  me  you're  a  prince." 

"  That  is  all." 

The  captain  measured  him  slowly  with  his  eye. 

"  Makings  of  a  man  as  well,  perhaps,"  he  said, 
doubtfully.  Then  he  turned  to  cast  an  eye  over  the 
Olaf. 

"  Tin-kettle  of  a  thing!"  he  observed,  after  a  pause. 

"  My  little  cargo  won't  be  much  in  her  great  hold. 
Hatches  are  too  small.  ]^ow,  I'm  all  hatch.  Can't 
open  up  in  this  weather.  We  can  turn  to  and  get  our 
running  tackle  bent.  It  '11  moderate  before  the  evening, 
and  if  it  does  we  can  work  all  night.  Will  your  Rile 
Highnes'  be  ready  to  work  all  night  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  ready  whenever  your  High  Mightiness  is." 

The  captain  gave  a  gruff  laugh. 

"  Dammy,  you'''re  the  right  sort !"  he  muttered,  look- 
ing aloft  at  the  rigging  with  that  contempt  for  foreign 
tackle  which  is  essentially  the  privilege  of  the  British 
sailor. 

Cable  gave  certain  orders,  announced  that  he  would 
send  four  men  on  board  in  the  afternoon  to  bend  the 

26 


A    SPECIALTY 

running  tackle  "  sliip-sliape  and  Bristol  fashion,"  and 
refused  to  remain  on  board  the  Olaf  for  luncheon. 

"  We've  got  a  bit  of  steak,"  he  said,  conclusively, 
and  clambered  over  the  side  into  his  boat.  In  confirma- 
tion of  this  statement  the  odor  of  fried  onions  v^as  borne 
on  the  breeze  a  few  minutes  later  from  the  small  steam- 
er to  the  large  one. 

The  men  from  Sunderland  came  on  board  during  the 
afternoon — men  who,  as  Captain  Cable  had  stated,  had 
only  one  language  and  made  singularly  small  use  of 
that.  Music  and  seamanship  are  two  arts  daily  prac- 
tised in  harmony  by  men  who  have  no  common  lan- 
guage. For  a  man  is  a  seaman  or  a  musician  quite 
independently  of  speech.  So  the  running  tackle  was 
successfully  bent,  and  in  the  evening  the  weather  mod- 
erated. 

There  was  a  half-moon,  which  struggled  through  the 
clouds  soon  after  dark,  and  by  its  light  the  little  Eng- 
lish steamer  sidled  almost  noiselessly  under  the  shadow 
of  her  large  companion.  Captain  Cable's  crew  worked 
quickly  and  quietly,  and  by  nine  o'clock  that  work  was 
begun  which  was  to  throw  a  noose  round  the  necks  of 
Prince  Bidcaty,  Prince  Martin,  Captain  Petersen,  and 
several  others. 

Captain  Cable  divided  the  watches  so  that  the  work 
might  proceed  continuously.  The  dawn  found  the 
smaller  steamer  considerably  lightened,  and  her  cap- 
tain bright  and  wakeful  at  his  post.  All  through  the 
day  the  transshipping  went  on.  Cases  of  all  sizes  and 
all  weights  were  slung  out  of  the  capacious  hatches  of 
the  one  to  sink  into  the  dark  hold  of  the  other  vessel, 
and  there  was  no  mishap.  Through  the  second  night 
the  creaking  of  the  blocks  never  ceased,  and  soon  after 
daylight  the  three  men  who  had  superintended  the  work 

27 


THE    VULTUEES 

without  resting  took  a  cup  of  coffee  together  in  the 
cabin  of  the  Olaf. 

"  Likely  as  not,"  said  Captain  Cable,  setting  down 
his  empty  cup,  "  we  three  '11  not  meet  again.  I  have 
had  dealings  with  many  that  I've  never  seen  again, 
and  with  some  that  have  been  careful  not  to  know  me 
if  they  did  see  me." 

"  We  can  never  tell,"  said  Martin,  optimistically. 

"  Of  course,"  the  captain  went  on,  "  I  can  hold  me 
tongue.  That's  agreed — we  all  hold  our  tongues,  what- 
ever the  newspapers  may  be  likely  to  pay  for  a  word  or 
two.  Often  enough  I've  read  things  in  the  newspaper 
that  I  could  put  a  different  name  to.  And  that  little 
ship  of  mine  has  had  a  hand  in  some  queer  political 
pies." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Martin,  with  his  gay  laugh,  "  and 
kept  it  clean  all  the  same." 

"  That's  as  may  be.  And  now  I'll  say  good-bye.  I'll 
be  calling  on  your  father  for  my  money  in  three  days' 
time — barrin'  fogs.  And  I'll  tell  him  I  left  you  well. 
Good-bye,  Petersen  ;  you're  a  handy  man.  Tell  him  he's 
a  handy  man  in  his  own  langwidge,  and  I'll  take  it 
kindly." 

Captain  Cable  shook  hands,  and  clattered  out  of  the 
cabin  in  his  great  sea-boots. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Olaf  was  alone  on  that  shal- 
low sea,  which  seemed  lonelier  and  more  silent  than 
ever ;  for  when  a  strong  man  quits  a  room  he  often  be- 
queaths a  sudden  silence  to  those  he  leaves  behind. 


IV 


TWO   OF   A   TRADE 


jIS  face  reminds  one  of  a  sunny  grave- 
yard/' a  witty  Frencliwoman  had 
once  said  of  a  man  named  Paul  Deu- 
lin.  And  it  is  probable  that  Deulin 
alone  could  have  understood  what  she 
meant.  Those  who  think  in  French 
have  a  trick  of  putting  great  thoughts  into  a  little  com- 
pass, and,  as  the  hollow  ball  of  talk  is  tossing  to  and  fro, 
it  sometimes  rings  for  a  moment  in  a  deeper  note  than 
many  ears  are  tuned  to  catch. 

The  careless  w^ord  seized  the  attention  of  one  man 
who  happened  to  hear  it — Reginald  Cartoner,  a  listener, 
not  a  talker — and  made  that  man  Paul  Deulin's  friend 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  As  there  is  point  de  culte  sans 
mystere,  so  also  there  can  be  no  lasting  friendship 
without  reserve.  And  although  these  two  men  had  met 
in  many  parts  of  the  world — although  they  had  in  com- 
mon more  languages  than  may  be  counted  on  the  fin- 
gers— they  knew  but  little  of  each  other. 

If  one  thinks  of  it,  a  sunny  graveyard,  bright  with 
flowers  and  the  gay  green  of  spring  foliage,  is  the  shal- 
lowest fraud  on  earth,  endeavoring  to  conceal  beneath  a 
specious  exterior  a  thousand  tragedies,  a  whole  harvest 
of  lost  illusions,  a  host  of  grim  human  comedies.  On 
the  other  hand,  this  is  a  pious  fraud  j  for  half  the 

29 


THE    VULTUEES 

world  is  young,  and  will  discover  the  roots  of  tlie 
flowers  soon  enongh. 

Cartoner  had  met  Deulin  in  many  strange  places. 
Together  they  had  witnessed  queer  events.  Accredited 
to  a  new  president  of  a  new  republic,  they  once  had 
made  their  bow,  clad  in  court  dress  and  official  dignity, 
to  the  man  whom  they  were  destined  to  see  a  month 
later  hanging  on  his  own  flagstaff,  out  over  the  plaza, 
from  the  spare-bedroom  window  of  the  new  presidency. 
They  had  acted  in  concert;  they  had  acted  in  direct 
opposition.  Cartoner  had  once  had  to  tell  Deulin  that 
if  he  persisted  in  his  present  course  of  action  the  gov- 
ernment which  he  (Cartoner)  represented  would  not 
be  able  to  look  upon  it  with  indifference,  which  is  the 
language  of  diplomacy,  and  means  war. 

For  these  men  Avere  the  vultures  of  their  respective 
Foreign  Offices,  and  it  was  their  business  to  be  found 
where  the  carcass  is. 

"  The  chief  difference  between  the  gods  and  men  is 
that  man  can  only  be  in  one  place  at  a  time,"  Deulin 
had  once  said  to  Cartoner,  twenty  years  his  junior,  in 
his  light,  philosophic  way,  when  a  turn  of  the  wheel 
had  rendered  a  long  journey  futile,  and  they  found 
themselves  far  from  that  place  where  their  services 
were  urgently  needed. 

"  If  men  could  be  in  two  places  at  the  same  moment, 
say  once  only  during  a  lifetime,  their  lives  would  be 
very  different  from  what  they  are."  Cartoner  had 
glanced  quickly  at  him  when  he  spoke,  but  only  saw  a 
ready,  imperturbable  smile. 

Deulin  was  a  man  counting  his  friends  among  all 
nationalities.  The  captain  of  a  great  steamship  has 
perhaps  as  many  acquaintances  as  may  be  vouchsafed 
to  one  man,  and  at  the  beginning  of  a  voyage  he  has  to 

30 


TWO     OE     A     TEADE 

assure  a  number  of  total  strangers  that  he  remembers 
them  perfectly.  Denlin,  during  fifty-odd  j^ears  of  his 
life,  had  moved  through  a  maze  of  men,  remembering 
faces  as  a  ship-captain  must  recollect  those  who  have 
sailed  with  him,  without  attaching  a  name  or  being  able 
to  allot  one  saving  quality  to  lift  an  individual  out  of 
the  ruck.  For  it  is  a  lamentable  fact  that  all  men  and 
all  women  are  painfully  like  each  other ;  it  is  only  their 
faces  that  differ.  For  God  has  made  the  faces,  but  men 
have  manufactured  their  own  thoughts. 

Deulin  had  met  a  few  who  were  not  like  the  others, 
and  one  of  these  was  Reginald  Cartoner,  who  was 
thrown  against  him,  as  it  were,  in  a  professional  man- 
ner when  Deulin  had  been  twenty  years  at  the  work. 

"  I  always  cross  the  road,"  he  said,  "  when  I  see 
Cartoner  on  the  other  side.  If  I  did  not,  he  would  go 
past." 

This  he  did  in  the  literal  sense  the  day  after  Car- 
toner landed  in  England  on  his  return  from  America. 
Deulin  saw  his  friend  emerge  from  a  club  in  Pall  Mall 
and  walk  westward,  as  if  he  had  business  in  that  direc- 
tion. Like  many  travellers,  the  Frenchman  loved  the 
open  air.  Like  all  Frenchmen,  he  loved  the  streets. 
He  was  idling  in  Pall  Mall,  avoiding  a  man  here  and 
there.  For  we  all  have  friends  whom  we  are  content  to 
see  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  Deulin's  duty  was,  more- 
over, such  that  it  got  strangely  mixed  up  with  his  pleas- 
ure, and  it  often  happens  that  discretion  must  needs 
overcome  a  natural  sociability. 

Cartoner  saw  his  friend  Approaching ;  for  Deulin  had 
the  good  fortune,  or  the  misfortune,  to  be  a  distinguished- 
looking  man,  with  a  tall,  spare  form,  a  trim  white  mus- 
tache and  imperial,  and  that  air  of  calm  possession  of 
his  environment  which  gives  to  some  paupers  the  man- 

31 


THE     V  U  L  T  U  E  E  S 

ner  of  a  great  land-owner.     He  shook  hands  in  silence, 
then  turned  and  walked  with  Cartoner. 

"  I  permit  mj^self  a  question,"  he  said.  "  When  did 
you  return  from  Cuha  ?" 

"  I  landed  at  Liverpool  last  night." 

Cartoner  turned  in  his  abrupt  way  and  looked  his 
companion  up  and  down.  Perhaps  he  was  wondering 
for  the  hundredth  time  what  might  be  buried  behind 
those  smiling  eyes. 

"  I  am  in  London,  as  you  see,"  said  Deulin,  as  if  he 
had  been  asked  a  question.  "  I  am  awaiting  orders. 
Something  is  brewing  somewhere,  one  may  suppose. 
Your  return  to  London  seems  to  confirm  such  a  sus- 
picion. Let  us  hope  we  may  have  another  little  .  .  . 
errand  together — eh  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  Deulin  bowed  in  his  rather  grand  way 
to  an  old  gentleman  who  walked  briskly  past  in  the 
military  fashion,  and  who  turned  to  look  curiously  at 
the  two  men. 

"  You  are  dressed  in  your  best  clothes,"  said  Deu- 
lin, after  a  pause ;  "  you  are  going  to  pay  calls." 

"  I  am  going  to  call  on  one  of  my  old  chiefs." 

"  Then  I  will  ask  your  permission  to  accompany  you. 
I,  too,  have  put  on  a  new  hat.  I  am  idle.  I  want  some- 
thing to  do.  Mon  Dieu,  I  want  to  talk  to  a  clean  and 
wholesome  Englishwoman,  just  for  a  change.  I  know 
all  your  old  chiefs,  my  friend.  I  know  where  you  have 
been  every  moment  since  you  made  your  mark  at  this 
business.    One  watches  the  quiet  men — eh  ?" 

"  She  will  be  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Cartoner,  with 
his  slow  smile. 

"  Ah  I  She  is  always  kind,  that  lady ;  for  I  guess 
where  we  are  going.  She  might  have  been  a  great 
woman  ...  if  she  had  not  been  a  happy  one." 

32 


TWO     OF     A     TKADE 

"  I  always  go  to  see  tliem  when  I  am  in  town,"  said 
Cartoner,  who  nsnally  confined  his  conversation  to  the 
necessaries  of  daily  intercourse. 

"  And  he — how  is  he  ?" 

"  He  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected.  He  has  worked 
so  hard  and  so  long  in  many  climates.  She  is  always 
anxions  about  him." 

"  It  is  the  penalty  a  woman  pays,"  said  Deulin. 
"  To  love  and  to  be  consumed  by  anxiety — a  woman's 
life,  my  friend.  Oddly  enough,  I  should  have  gone 
there  this  afternoon,  whether  I  had  met  you  or  not.  I 
want  her  good  services — again." 

And  the  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
laugh,  as  if  suddenly  reminded  of  some  grievous  error 
in  his  past  life. 

"  I  want  her  to  befriend  some  friends  of  mine,  if  she 
has  not  done  so  already.  For  she  knows  them,  of  course. 
They  are  the  Bukatys.  Of  course,  you  know  the  his- 
tory of  the  Bukatys  of  Warsaw." 

"  I  know  the  history  of  Poland,"  answered  Car- 
toner,  looking  straight  in  front  of  him  with  reflective 
eyes.  He  had  an  odd  way  of  carrying  his  head  a  little 
bent  forward,  as  if  he  bore  behind  his  heavy  forehead 
a  burden  of  memories  and  knowledge  of  which  his 
brain  was  always  conscious — as  a  man  may  stand  in  the 
centre  of  a  great  library,  and  become  suddenly  aware 
that  he  has  more  books  than  he  can  ever  open  and  under- 
stand. 

"  Of  course  you  do ;  you  know  a  host  of  things.  And 
you  know  more  history  than  was  ever  written  in  books. 
You  know  more  than  I  do,  and  Heaven  knows  that  I 
know  a  great  deal.  For  you  are  a  reader,  and  I  never 
look  into  a  book.  I  know  the  surface  of  things.  The 
Bukatys  are  in  London.  I  give  you  that — ^to  put  in 
»  33 


THE    VULTURES 

your  pipe  and  smoke.  Father  and  son.  It  is  not  for 
them  that  I  seek  Lady  Orlay's  help.  They  must  take 
care  of  themselves — though  they  will  not  do  that.  It 
does  not  run  in  the  family,  as  you  know,  who  read  his- 
tory books." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Cartoner,  pausing  before  cross- 
ing to  the  corner  of  St.  James's  Street,  in  the  manner 
of  a  man  whose  life  had  not  been  passed  in  London 
streets.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that  English  traf- 
fic is  different  to  the  traffic  of  any  other  streets  in  the 
world. 

"  There  is  a  girl,"  pursued  the  Frenchman.  "  Fam- 
ilies like  the  Bukatys  should  kill  their  girls  in  infancy. 
l!iot  that  Wanda  knows  it ;  she  is  as  gay  as  a  bird,  and 
quite  devoted  to  her  father,  who  is  an  old  ruffian — and 
my  very  dear  friend." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  Lady  Orlay  to  do  for 
Princess  Wanda  ?"  inquired  Cartoner,  with  a  smile.  It 
was  always  a  marvel  to  him  that  Paul  Deulin  should 
have  travelled  so  far  do^vn  the  road  of  life  without  los- 
ing his  enthusiasm  somewhere  by  the  way. 

"  That  I  leave  to  Lady  Orlay,"  replied  Deulin,  with 
an  airy  wave  of  his  neat  umbrella,  which  imperilled 
the  eyesight  of  a  passing  baker-boy,  who  abused  him. 
Whereupon  Deulin  turned  and  took  off  his  hat  and 
apologized. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  ignoring  the  incident,  "  I  would  not 
presume  to  dictate.  All  I  should  do  would  be  to  present 
Wanda  to  her.  Here  is  a  girl  who  has  the  misfortune 
to  be  a  Bukaty;  who  has  no  mother;  who  has  a  father 
who  is  a  plotter  and  an  old  ruffian — a  Polish  noble,  in 
fact — and  a  brother  who  is  an  enthusiast,  and  as  brave 
as  only  a  prince  can  be.'  I  should  say,  ^  Ton  see  that 
circumstances  have  thrown  this  girl  upon  the  world, 

34 


TWO     OF    A    TRADE 

practically  alone — on  the  hard,  hard  upper-class  world 
• — with  only  one  heart  to  break.  It  is  only  men  who 
have  a  whole  row  of  hearts  on  a  shelf,  and,  when  one 
is  broken,  they  take  down  another,  made,  perhaps,  of 
ambition,  or  sport,  or  the  love  of  a  different  sort  of 
woman — and,  vogue  la  galere,  they  go  on  just  as  well 
as  they  did  before.'  " 

"  And  my  accomplished  aunt  .  .  ."  suggested  Car- 
toner. 

"  Would  laugh  at  me,  I  know  that.  I  would  rather 
have  Lady  Orlay's  laugh  than  another  woman's  tears. 
And  so  would  you ;  for  you  are  a  man  of  common-sense, 
though  deadly  dull  in  conversation." 

As  if  to  prove  the  truth  of  this  assertion,  Deulin  was 
himself  silent  until  they  had  ascended  St.  James's 
Street  and  turned  to  the  left  in  Piccadilly;  and,  sure 
enough,  Cartoner  had  nothing  to  say.  At  last  he  broke 
the  silence,  and  made  it  evident  that  he  had  been  placid- 
ly following  the  stream  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"  Who  is  Joseph  P.  Mangles  ?"  he  asked,  in  his  semi- 
inaudible  monotone. 

"  An  American  gentleman — the  word  is  applicable  in 
its  best  sense — who  for  his  sins,  or  the  sins  of  his  fore- 
fathers, has  been  visited  with  the  most  terrible  sister 
a  man  ever  had." 

"  So  much  I  know." 

Deulin  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion. 

"  Then  you  have  met  him — that  puts  another  com- 
plexion on  your  question." 

"  I  have  just  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  the  next  chair 
to  him." 

"  And  that  is  all  you  know  about  him  ?" 

Cartoner  nodded. 

"  Thon  Joseph  P.  Mangles  is  getting  on." 

35 


THE    yULTUKES 

"  What  is  he  ?"  repeated  Cartoner. 

"  He  is  in  the  service  of  his  country,  my  friend, 
like  any  other  poor  devil — like  you  or  me,  for  instance. 
He  spends  half  of  his  time  kicking  his  heels  in  'New 
York,  or  wherever  they  kick  their  heels  in  America. 
The  rest  of  his  time  he  is  risking  his  health,  or  possibly 
his  neck,  wherever  it  may  please  the  fates  to  send  him. 
If  he  had  been  properly  trained,  he  might  have  done 
something,  that  Joseph  P.  Mangles;  for  he  can  hold 
his  tongue.  But  he  took  to  it  late,  as  they  all  do  in 
America.  So  he  has  come  across,  has  he  ?  Yes,  the 
storm-birds  are  congregating,  my  silent  friend.  There 
is  something  in  the  wind." 

Deulin  raised  his  long,  thin  nose  into  the  dusty  May 
jair  and  sniffed  it. 

"  Was  that  girl  with  them  ?"  he  inquired  presently — 
'' Miss  Netty  Cahere?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  always  make  love  to  Miss  Cahere — she  likes  it 
best." 

Cartoner  stared  straight  in  front  of  him,  and  made 
ao  conmient.  The  Frenchman  gave  a  laugh,  which 
was  not  entirely  pleasant.  It  was  rare  that  his  laugh 
was  harsh,  but  such  a  note  rang  in  it  now.  They  did 
not  speak  again  until  they  had  walked  some  distance 
northward  of  Piccadilly,  and  stopped  before  a  house 
with  white  window-boxes.  Several  carriages  stood  at 
ihe  other  side  of  the  road  against  the  square  railings. 

"  Is  it  her  day  ?"  inquired  Deulin. 

"  Yes." 

Deulin  made  a  grimace  expressive  of  annoyance. 

"  And  we  shall  see  a  number  of  people  we  had  better 
not  see.  But,  since  we  are  here,  let  us  go  in — with  a 
smile  on  the  countenance,  eh  ?  my  brave  Cartoner." 

36 


TWOOFATRADE 

"  And  a  lie  on  the  tongue." 

"There  I  will  meet  yon,  too,"  replied  Denlin,  look- 
ing into  his  card-case. 

They  entered  the  house,  and,  as  Denlin  had  predicted, 
there  found  a  number  of  people  assembled,  who  noted, 
no  doubt,  that  they  had  come  together.  It  was  ob- 
servable that  this  was  not  a  congTCgation  of  fashionable 
'or  artistic  people;  for  the  women  were  dressed  quietly, 
and  the  men  were  mostly  old  and  white-haired.  It  was 
also  dimly  perceptible  that  there  was  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  brain  in  the  room  than  is  allotted  to  the  merely 
fashionable,  or  to  that  shallow  mixture  of  the  dramatic 
and  pictorial,  which  is  usually  designated  the  artistic 
world.  Moreover,  scraps  of  conversation  reached  the 
ear  that  led  the  hearer  to  conclude  that  the  house  was  in 
its  way  a  miniature  Babel. 

The  two  men  separated  on  the  threshold,  and  Denlin 
went  forward  to  shake  hands  with  a  tall,  white-haired 
Avoman,  who  was  the  centre  of  a  vivacious  group.  Over 
the  heads  of  her  guests  this  lady  had  already  per- 
ceived Cartoner,  who  was  making  his  way  more  slowly 
through  the  crowd.  He  seemed  to  have  more  friends 
there  than  Denlin.  Lady  Orlay  at  length  went  to  meet 
Cartoner,  and  as  they  shook  hands,  one  of  those  slight 
and  indefinable  family  resemblances  which  start  up  at 
odd  moments  became  visible. 

"  I  want  you  particularly  to-morrow  night,"  said 
the  lady ;  "  I  have  some  people  coming.  I  wdll  send  a 
card  to  your  club  this  evening." 

And  she  turned  to  say  good-bye  to  a  departing  guest. 
Denlin  was  at  Cartoner's  elbow  again. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  taking  him  by  the  sleeve  and  speak- 
ing in  his  own  tongue,  "  I  wish  to  present  you  to 
friends  of  mine.     Prince  Pierre  Bukaty/'  he  added, 

37, 


THE     VULTUKES 

stopping  ill  front  of  a  tall,  old  man,  with  bushy,  white 
hair,  and  the  air  of  a  mediaeval  chieftain,  "  allow  me 
to  present  my  old  friend  Cartoner." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  without  other  greeting 
than  a  formal  bow.  Deulin  still  held  Cartoner  by  the 
sleeve,  and  gently  compelled  him  to  turn  towards  a 
girl  who  was  looking  round  with  bright  and  eager  eyes. 
She  had  a  manner  full  of  energy  and  spirit,  and  might 
have  been  an  English  girl  of  open  air  and  active  tastes. 

"  Princess  Wanda,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "  my  friend 
Mr.  Cartoner." 

The  eager  eyes  came  round  to  Cartoner's  face,  of 
which  the  gravity  seemed  suddenly  reflected  in  them. 

"  He  is  the  best  linguist  in  Europe,"  said  Deulin, 
in  a  gay  whisper ;  "  even  Polish ;  he  speaks  with  the 
tongue  of  men  and  of  angels." 

And  he  himself  spoke  in  Polish. 

Princess  Wanda  met  Cartoner's  serious  eyes  again, 
and  in  that  place,  where  human  fates  are  written,  an- 
other page  of  those  inscrutable  books  was  folded  over. 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE 

g^g^->:^-^(^T7TArm7.  BUKATY  M-as  an  affable  old 
^   '  '^    man,  with  a  love  of  good  wine  and  a 

perfect  appreciation  of  the  humorous. 
Had  he  been  an  Englishman,  he  would 
have  been  an  honest  squire  of  the  old 
Tory  type,  now  fast  fading  before  facil- 
ities for  foreign  travel  and  a  cheap  local  railway  ser- 
vice. But  he  was  a  Pole,  and  the  fine  old  hatred 
which  should  have  been  bestowed  upon  the  Radicals 
fell  to  the  lot  of  the  Russians,  and  the  contempt  hurled 
by  his  British  prototype  upon  Dissent  w^as  cast  upon 
Commerce  as  represented  in  Poland  by  the  thrifty 
German  emigre. 

The  prince  carried  his  bluff'  head  with  that  air  which 
almost  invariably  bespeaks  a  stormy  youth,  and  looked 
out  over  mankind  from  his  great  height  as  over  a  fine 
standing  crop  of  Avild  oats.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
had  grown  to  manhood  in  the  years  immediately  pre- 
ceding those  wild  early  sixties,  when  all  Europe  was  at 
loggerheads,  and  Poland  seething  in  its  midst,  as  lava 
seethes  in  the  crater  of  a  volcano. 

The  prince  had  been  to  England  several  times.  He 
had  friends  in  London.  Indeed,  he  possessed  them 
in  many  parts  of  the  world,  and,  oddly  enough,  he 
had  no  enemies.     To  his  credit  be  it  noted  that  he 

39 


THE     VULTUKES 

was  not  an  exile,  which  is  usually  another  name  for 
a  scoundrel.  Eor  he  who  has  no  abiding  city  general- 
ly considers  himself  exempt  from  the  duties  of  citi- 
zenship. 

"  They  do  not  take  me  seriously,"  he  said  to  his  in- 
timate friends ;  "  they  do  not  honor  me  by  recognizing 
me  as  a  dangerous  person ;  but  we  shall  see." 

And  the  Prince  Bukaty  was  thus  allowed  to  go  where 
he  listed,  and  live  in  Warsaw  if  he  so  desired.  Per- 
haps the  secret  of  this  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  poor ; 
for  a  poor  man  has  few  adherents.  In  the  olden  times, 
when  the  Bukatys  had  been  rich,  there  were  many  pro- 
fessing readiness  to  follow  him  to  the  death — which 
is  the  way  of  the  world.  "  You  have  but  to  hold  up 
your  hand,"  cries  the  faithful  follower.  But  wise  men 
know  that  the  hand  must  have  something  in  it.  The 
prince  had  been  young  and  impressionable  when  Po- 
land was  torn  to  pieces,  when  that  which  for  eight 
centuries  had  been  one  of  the  important  kingdoms  of  the 
world  was  wiped  off  the  face  of  Europe,  like  writing 
off  a  slate.  He  Avas  not  a  ruffian,  as  Deulin  had  de- 
scribed him ;  but  he  was  a  man  who  had  been  ruffled, 
and  nothing  could  ever  smooth  him. 

He  was  too  frank  by  nature  to  play  a  hopeless  game 
with  the  cunning  and  the  sai^^or  of  spite  which  hopeless 
games  require.  If  he  liked  a  man,  he  said  so ;  if  he 
disliked  one,  he  was  equally  frank  about  it.  He  liked 
Cartoner  on  the  briefest  of  brief  introductions,  and 
said  so. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  find  a  man  in  London  who  speaks 
anything  but  English,  and  of  anything  but  English 
topics.  You  are  the  narrowest  people  in  the  world — 
you  Londoners.  But  you  are  no  Londoner ;  I  beg  your 
pardon.    Well,  then,  come  and  see  me  to-morrow.     We 

40 


AN     OLD    ACQUAINTANCE 

are  in  a  hotel  in  Kensington — will  you  come?  That 
is  the  address." 

And  he  held  out  a  card  with  a  small  gold  crown 
emblazoned  in  the  corner,  after  the  mode  of  eastern 
Europe.  Cartoner  reflected  for  a  moment,  wdiich  was 
odd  in  a  man  whose  decisions  were  usually  arrived  at 
with  lightning  speed.  Eor  he  had  a  slow  tongue  and  a 
quick  brain.  There  are  few  better  equipments  with 
which  to  face  the  world. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  length ;  "  it  will  give  me  much 
pleasure." 

The  prince  glanced  at  him  curiously  beneath  his 
bushy  eyebrows.  What  was  there  to  need  reflection  in 
such  a  small  question  ? 

"  At  five  o'clock,"  he  said.  "  We  can  give  you  a  cup 
of  the  poisonous  tea  you  drink  in  this  country." 

And  he  went  away  laughing  heartily  at  the  small 
witticism.  People  whose  lives  are  anything  but  a  joke 
are  usually  content  with  the  smallest  jests. 

It  was  scarcely  five  o'clock  the  next  day  when  Car- 
toner  was  conducted  by  a  page-boy  to  the  Bukatys' 
rooms  in  the  quiet  old  hotel  in  Kensington.  The 
Princess  Wanda  was  alone.  She  w^as  dressed  in  black. 
There  is  in  some  Varsovian  families  a  heritage  of 
mourning  to  be  worn  until  Poland  is  reinstated.  She 
w^as  slightly  but  strongly  made.  Like  her  father  and 
her  brother,  there  was  a  suggestion  of  endurance  in 
her  being,  such  as  is  often  found  in  slightly  made  per- 
sons. 

"  I  came  as  early  as  I  could,"  said  Cartoner,  and, 
as  he  spoke,  the  clock  struck. 

The  princess  smiled  as  she  shook  hands,  and  then 
perceived  that  she  had  not  been  intended  to  show 
amusement.    Cartoner  had  merely  made  a  rather  naive 

41 


THE     VULTUKES 

statement  in  his  low  monotone.  She  thought  him  a  lit- 
tle odd,  and  glanced  at  him  again.  She  changed  color 
slightly  as  she  turned  towards  a  chair.  He  was  quite 
grave  and  honest. 

"  That  is  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  speaking  English 
without  the  least  suspicion  of  accent;  for  she  had  had 
an  English  governess  all  her  life.  "  My  father  will 
take  it  to  mean  that  you  wanted  to  come,  and  are  not 
only  taking  pity  on  lonely  foreigners.  He  will  he  here 
in  a  minute.    He  has  just  been  called  away." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  him  to  ask  me  to  call,"  rej)lied 
Cartoner. 

There  was  a  simple  directness  in  his  manner  of 
speech  which  was  quite  new  to  the  Princess  Wanda. 
She  had  known  few  Englishmen,  and  her  own  country- 
men had  mostly  the  manners  of  the  French.  She  had 
never  met  a  man  who  conveyed  the  impression  of  pur- 
pose and  of  the  habit  of  going  straight  towards  his  pur- 
pose so  clearly  as  this.  Cartoner  had  not  come  to  pay 
an  idle  visit.  She  wondered  why  he  had  come.  He  did 
not  rush  into  conversation,  and  vet  his  silence  had  no 
sense  of  embarrassment  in  it.  His  hair  was  turning 
gray  above  the  temples.  She  could  see  this  as  he  took 
a  chair  near  the  window.  He  was  probably  ten  years 
older  than  herself,  and  gave  the  impression  of  expe- 
rience and  of  a  deep  knowledge  of  the  world.  From 
living  much  alone  he  had  acquired  the  habit  of  wonder- 
ing whether  it  was  worth  while  to  say  that  which  came 
into  his  mind — which  is  a  habit  fatal  to  social  success. 

"  Monsieur  Deulin  dined  with  us  last  night,"  said 
the  princess,  following  the  usual  instinct  that  silence 
between  strangers  is  intolerable.  "  He  talked  a  great 
deal  of  you." 

"  Ah,  Deulin  is  a  diplomatist.    He  talks  too  much." 

42 


AN   OLD   acquainta:nce 

"  He  accuses  you  of  talking  too  little,"  said  Wanda, 
with  some  spirit. 

"  You  see,  there  are  only  two  methods  of  leaving 
things  unsaid,  princess." 

"  Which  is  diplomacy  ?"  she  suggested. 

"  Which  is  diplomacy." 

"  Then  I  think  you  are  both  great  artists,"  she  said^ 
with  a  laugh,  as  the  door  opened  and  her  father  entered 
the  room. 

"  I  only  come  to  ask  you  a  question — a  word,"  said 
the  prince.  "Heavens!  your  English  language!  I 
have  a  man  down-stairs — a  question  of  business — and 
he  speaks  the  oddest  English.  ISTow,  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  jettison  ?" 

Cartoner  gave  him  the  word  in  French. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  prince,  holding  up  his  two  power- 
ful hands,  "  of  course.  How  foolish  of  me  not  to 
guess.  In  a  moment  I  will  return.  You  w^ll  excuse 
me,  will  you  not  ?    Wanda  will  give  you  some  tea." 

And  he  hurried  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Cartoner  to 
wonder  what  a  person  so  far  removed  above  commerce 
could  have  to  do  with  the  word  jettison. 

The  conversation  naturally  returned  to  Deulin.  He 
was  a  man  of  whom  people  spoke  continually,  and  had 
spoken  for  years.  In  fact,  two  generations  had  found 
him  a  fruitful  topic  of  conversation  without  increasing 
their  knowledge  of  him.  If  he  had  only  been  that  which 
is  called  a  public  man,  a  novelist  or  a  singer,  his  fortune 
would  have  been  easy.  All  his  advertising  would  have 
been  done  for  him  by  others.  For  there  was  in  him 
that  unkno^^al  quantity  which  the  world  must  needs 
think  magnificent. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  you  know  about  him," 
said  the  princess  in  her  brisk  way.     "  He  is  the  only 

43 


THE    VULTURES 

old  man  I  have  ever  seen  whose  thoughts  have  not  grown 
old  too.  And,  of  course,  one  wonders  why.  He  is  the 
sort  of  person  who  might  do  anything  surprising.  He 
might  fall  in  love  and  marry,  or  something  like  that, 
you  know.  Papa  says  he  is  married  already,  and  his 
wife  is  in  a  mad  asylum.  He  says  there  is  a  tragedy. 
But  I  don't.    He  has  no  wife — unless  he  has  two." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  that  side  of  his  life.  I  only 
know  his  career." 

"  I  do  not  care  about  his  career,"  said  the  princess, 
lightly.     "  I  go  deeper  than  careers." 

She  looked  at  Cartoner  with  a  wise  nod  and  a  shrewd 
look  in  her  gay,  blue  eyes. 

"  A  man's  career  is  only  the  surface  of  his  life." 

"  Then  some  men's  lives  are  all  surface,"  said  Car- 
toner. 

Wanda  gave  a  little,  half-pitying,  half-contemptuous 
jerk  of  her  head. 

"  Some  men  have  the  soul  of  an  omnibus-horse,"  she 
replied. 

Cartoner  reflected  for  a  moment,  looking  gravely  the 
while  at  this  girl,  who  seemed  to  know  so  much  of  life 
and  to  have  such  singularly  clear  and  decisive  views 
upon  it. 

"  What  would  you  have  them  do  beyond  going  on 
when  required  and  stopping  when  expedient  —  and 
avoiding  collisions  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  should  like  them  to  break  the  omnibus  up  occa- 
sionally," she  answered,  "  and  take  a  wrong  turning 
sometimes,  just  to  see  if  a  little  happiness  lay  that 
way." 

"  Yes,"  he  laughed.  "  You  are  a  Pole  and  a  Bu- 
katy.    I  knew  it  as  soon  as  I  saw  you." 

"  One  must  do  something.    We  were  talking  of  such 


AN    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE 

things  last  night,  and  Monsieur  Deulin  said  that  his 
ideal  combination  in  a  man  was  an  infinite  patience 
and  a  sudden  j^remeditated  recklessness." 

"  Now  you  have  come  down  to  a  mere  career  again," 
said  Cartoner. 

"  Not  necessarily." 

The  prince  came  into  the  room  again  at  this  moment. 

"  What  are  you  people  discussing,"  he  asked,  "  so 
gravely  ?" 

He  spoke  in  French,  which  was  the  language  that 
was  easiest  to  him,  for  he  had  been  young  when  it  was 
the  fashion  in  Poland  to  be  French. 

"  I  do  not  quite  know,"  answered  Cartoner,  slowly, 
"  The  princess  was  giving  me  her  views." 

"  I  know,"  retorted  the  old  man,  with  his  rather  hol- 
low laugh.    "  They  are  long  views,  those  views  of  hers." 

Cartoner  was  still  standing  near  the  window.  He 
turned  absently  and  looked  out,  down  into  the  busy 
street.  There  he  saw  something  which  caused  him  in- 
tense surprise,  though  he  did  not  show  it;  for,  like  any 
men  of  strong  purpose,  his  face  had  but  one  expression, 
and  that  of  thoughtful  attention.  He  saw  Captain 
Cable,  of  the  Minnie,  crossing  the  street,  having  just 
quitted  the  hotel.  This  was  the  business  acquaintance 
of  Prince  Bukaty's,  who  had  come  to  speak  of  jettison. 

Cartoner  knew  Captain  Cable  well,  and  his  specialty 
in  maritime  skill.  He  had  seen  war  waged  before  now 
with  material  which  had  passed  in  and  out  of  the  Min-' 
nie's  hatches. 

The  prince  did  not  refer  again  to  the  affairs  that 
had  called  him  away.  The  talk  naturally  turned  to 
the  house  where  they  had  first  met,  and  Wanda  men- 
tioned that  her  father  and  she  were  going  to  the  recep- 
tion given  by  the  Orlays  that  evening. 

45 


THE     VULTURES 

"  You  are  going,  of  course  ?"  said  the  prince. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going." 

"  You  go  to  many  sucli  entertainments  ?" 

"  1^0,  I  go  to  very  few,"  replied  Cartoner,  looking  at 
Wanda  in  his  speculative  way. 

Then  he  suddenly  rose  and  took  his  leave,  with  a 
characteristic  omission  of  the  usual  "  Well,  I  must  be 
off,"  or  any  such  catch-word.  He  certainly  left  a  great 
deal  unsaid  which  this  babbling  world  expects. 

He  walked  along  the  crowded  streets,  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts,  for  some  distance.  Then  he  sudden- 
ly emerged  from  that  quiet  shelter,  and  accepted  the 
urgent  invitation  of  a  hansom-cab  driver  to  get  into  his 
vehicle. 

"  Westminster  Bridge,"  he  said. 

He  quitted  the  cab  at  the  corner  of  the  bridge,  and 
walked  quickly  down  to  the  steamboat-landing. 

""  Where  do  you  want  to  go  to  ?"  inquired  the  gruff, 
seafaring  ticket-clerk. 

"  As  far  as  I  can,"  was  the  reply. 

A  steamer  came  almost  at  once,  and  Cartoner  selected 
a  quiet  seat  over  the  rudder.  He  must  have  known  that 
the  Minnie  was  so  constructed  that  she  could  pass  under 
the  bridges,  for  he  began  to  look  for  her  at  once.  It  was 
six  o'clock,  and  a  spring  tide  was  running  out.  All  the 
passenger  traffic  was  turned  to  the  westward,  and  a 
friendly  deck-hand,  having  leisure,  came  and  gave  Car- 
toner his  views  upon  cricket,  in  which,  as  was  natural 
in  one  whose  life  was  passed  on  running  water,  his 
whole  heart  seemed  to  be  absorbed.  Cartoner  was 
friendly,  but  did  not  take  advantage  of  this  affability 
to  make  inquiries  about  the  Minnie.  He  knew,  perhaps, 
that  there  is  no  more  suspicious  man  on  earth  than  a 
river-side  worker. 

46 


A^     OLD     ACQUAINTANCE 

The  steamer  raced  under  the  bridges,  and  at  hxst 
sliot  out  into  the  Pool,  where  a  few  behated  barges  were 
drifting  down  stream.  A  number  of  steamers  lay 
at  anchor,  some  working  cargo,  others  idle.  The  ma- 
jority were  foreigners,  odd-shaped  vessels,  with  funnels 
like  a  steam  threshing-machine,  and  gayly  painted  deck- 
houses. 

In  one  quiet  corner,  behind  a  laid-up  excursion-boat 
and  a  file  of  North  Sea  fish-carriers,  lay  the  Minnie, 
painted  black,  with  nothing  brighter  than  a  deep  brown 
on  her  deck-house,  her  boats  painted  a  shabby  green. 
She  might  have  been  an  overgrown  tug  or  a  super- 
annuated fish-carrier. 

Cartoner  landed  at  the  Cherry  Orchard  Pier,  and 
soon  found  a  boatman  to  take  him  to  the  Minnie. 

"  Just  took  the  skipper  on  board  a  few  minutes  ago, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  He  must  have  come  down  by  the  boat 
before  yours." 

A  few  minutes  later  Cartoner  stood  on  the  deck  of 
the  Minnie,  and  banged  with  his  fist  on  the  cover  of  the 
cabin  gangAvay,  which  was  tantamount  to  ringing  at 
Captain  Cable's  front  door. 

That  sailor's  grim  face  appeared  a  moment  later, 
emerging  like  the  face  of  a  hermit-crab  from  its  shell. 
The  fro^vn  slowly  faded,  and  the  deep,  unwashed 
wrinkles  took  a  kindlier  curve. 

"It's  you,  Mr.  Cartoner,"  he  said.  "Glad  to  see 
you. 

"  I  was  passing  in  a  steamer,"  answered  Cartoner, 
quietly,  "  and  recognized  the  Minnie." 

"  I  take  it  friendly  of  you,  Mr.  Cartoner,  remember- 
ing the  rum  time  you  and  me  had  together.  Come  be- 
low. I've  got  a  drop  of  wine  somewhere  stowed  away 
in  a  locker." 

47 


VI 


THE  VULTUEES 


SUPPOSE,"  Miss  Mangles  was  say- 
ing — "  I  suppose,  Joseph,  that  Lady 
Orlay  has  been  interested  in  the  work 
without  onr  knowing  it  ?" 

"  It  is  possible,  Jooly — it  is  pos- 
sible," replied  Mr.  Joseph  P.  Man- 
gles, looking  with  a  small,  bright,  speculative  eye  out 
of  the  window  of  his  private  sitting-room  in  a  hotel  in 
^Northumberland  Avenue. 

Miss  Mangles  was  standing  behind  him,  and  held  in 
her  hand  an  invitation-card  notifying  that  Lady  Orlay 
would  be  at  home  that  same  evening  from  nine  o'clock 
till  midnight. 

"  This  invitation,"  said  the  recipient,  "  accompanied 
as  it  is  by  a  friendly  note  explaining  that  the  shortness 
of  the  invitation  lies  in  the  fact  that  we  only  arrived  the 
day  before  yesterday,  seems  to  point  to  it,  Joseph.  It 
seems  to  indicate  that  England  is  prepared  to  give  me  a 
welcome." 

"  On  the  face  of  it,  Jooly,  it  would  seem — just  that." 
Mr.  Mangles  continued  to  gaze  with  a  speculative 
eye  into  Northumberland  Avenue.  If,  as  Cartoner  had 
suggested,  the  profession  of  which  Mr.  Joseph  P. 
Mangles  was  a  tardy  ornament,  needed  above  all  things 
a  capacity  for  leaving  things  unsaid,   the   American 

48 


THE    VULTURES 

diplomatist  was  not  ignorant  in  bis  art.  For  he  did  not 
inform  his  sister  that  the  invitation  to  which  she  at- 
tached so  flattering  a  national  importance  owed  its 
origin  to  an  accidental  encounter  between  himself  and 
Lord  Orlay — a  friend  of  his  early  senatorial  days — in 
Pall  Mall  the  day  before. 

Miss  Mangles  stood  with  the  card  in  her  hand  and 
reflected.  No  Avoman  and  few  men  would  need  to  be 
told,  moreover,  the  subject  of  her  thoughts.  Of  what, 
indeed,  does  every  woman  think  the  moment  she  re- 
ceives an  invitation  ? 

"  Jooly,"  Mr.  Mangles  had  been  heard  to  say  behind 
that  lady's  back — "  Jooly  is  an  impressive  dresser  when 
she  tries." 

But  the  truth  is  that  Jooly  did  not  always  try.  She 
had  not  tried  this  morning,  but  stood  in  the  conventional 
hotel  room  dressed  in  a  black  cloth  garment  which  had 
pleats  do>vn  the  front  and  back  and  a  belt  like  a  Nor- 
folk jacket.  Miss  Mangles  was  large  and  square- 
shouldered.  She  was  a  rhomboid,  in  fact,  and  had  that 
depressing  square-and-flat  waist  which  so  often  figures 
on  the  platform  in  a  great  cause.  Her  hair  was  black 
and  shiny  and  straight;  it  was  drawn  back  from  her 
rounded  temples  by  hydraulic  pressure.  Her  mouth 
was  large  and  rather  loose ;  it  had  groAvn  baggy  by  much 
speaking  on  public  platforms — a  fearsome  thing  in 
woman.  Her  face  was  large  and  round  and  white. 
Her  eyes  were  dull.  Long  ago  there  must  have  been 
depressing  moments  in  the  life  of  Julia  P.  Mangles — 
moments  spent  in  front  of  her  mirror.  But,  like  the 
woman  of  spirit  that  she  was,  she  had  determined  that, 
if  she  could  not  be  beautiful,  she  could  at  all  events  be 
great. 

One  self-deception  leads  to  another.  Miss  Mang:le3 
*  .49 


THE     VULTUEES 

sat  down  and  accepted  Lady  Orlay's  invitation  in  the 
full  and  perfect  conviction  that  she  owed  it  to  her  great- 
ness. 

"  Are  they  abstainers  ?"  she  asked,  reflectively,  going- 
back  in  her  mind  over  the  causes  she  had  championed, 

"  l!^ay,"  replied  Josej^h,  winking  gravely  at  a  police- 
man in  ^Northumberland  Avenue. 

"  Perhaps  Lord  Orlay  is  open  to  conviction." 

"  If  you  tackle  Orlay,  you'll  find  you've  bitten  off  a 
bigger  bit  than  you  can  chew,"  replied  Joseph,  who  had 
a  singular  habit  of  lapsing  into  the  vulgarest  slang  when 
Julia  mounted  her  high  horse  in  the  presence  of  him- 
self only.  When  others  were  present  Mr.  Mangles 
seemed  to  take  a  sort  of  pride  in  this  great  woman.  Let 
those  explain  the  attitude  who  can. 

Lady  Orlay's  entertainments  were  popularly  said  to 
be  too  crowded,  and  no  one  knew  this  better  than  Ladv 
Orlay. 

"  Let  us  ask  them  all  and  be  done  with  them,"  she 
said;  and  had  said  it  for  thirty  years,  ever  since  she 
had  begun  a  social  existence  with  no  other  prospects 
than  that  which  lay  in  her  husband's  brain — then  plain 
Mr.  Orlay.  She  had  never  "  done  with  them,"  had 
never  secured  that  peaceful  domestic  leisure  which  had 
always  been  her  dream  and  her  husband's  dream,  and 
would  never  secure  it.  For  these  were  two  persons, 
now  old  and  white-haired  and  celebrated,  who  lived  in 
the  great  world,  and  had  a  supreme  contempt  for  it. 

The  Mangleses  were  among  the  first  to  arrive,  Julia 
in  a  dress  of  rich  black  silk,  with  some  green  about  it, 
and  a  number  of  iridescent  beetle-wings  serving  as  a  re- 
lief. Miss  ^N'etty  Cahere  was  a  vision  of  pink  and  self- 
effacing  quietness. 

"  We  shall  know  no  one,"  she  said,  with  a  shrink- 

50 


THE     VULTURES 

ing  movement  of  her  shoulders  as  they  mounted  the 
stairs. 

"  Not  even  the  waiters,"  replied  Joseph  Mangles,  in 
his  lug-ubrious  bass,  glancing  into  a  room  where  tea  and 
coffee  were  set  out.    "  But  they  will  soon  know  us." 

They  had  not  been  in  the  room,  however,  five  minutes 
before  an  acquaintance  entered  it,  tall  and  slim,  like  a 
cheerful  Don  Quixote,  with  the  ribbon  of  a  great  order 
across  his  shirt-front.  He  paused  for  a  moment  near 
Lord  and  Lady  Orlay,  and  his  entrance  caused,  as  it 
usually  did,  a  little  stir  in  the  room.  Then  he  turned 
and  greeted  Joseph  Mangles.  Over  the  large,  firm  hand 
of  that  gentleman's  sister  he  bowed  in  silence. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  that  great  woman,"  he 
sometimes  said.  "She  is  so  elevated  that  my  voice  will 
not  reach  her." 

Deulin  then  turned  to  where  Miss  Cahere  had  been 
standing.  But  she  had  moved  away  a  few  paces,  nearer 
to  a  candelabrum,  under  which  she  was  now  standing, 
and  a  young  officer  in  full  German  uniform  was  open- 
ly admiring  her,  with  a  sort  of  wonder  on  his  foolish, 
Teutonic  face. 

"  Ah !  I  expected  you  had  forgotten  me,"  she  said, 
when  Deulin  presented  himself. 

"  Believe  me — I  have  tried,"  he  replied,  with  great 
earnestness;  but  the  complete  innocence  of  her  face 
clearly  showed  that  she  did  not  attach  any  deep  mean- 
ing to  his  remark. 

"  You  must  see  so  many  people  that  you  cannot  be 
expected  to  remember  them  all." 

"  I  do  not  remember  them  all,  mademoiselle — only 
a  very,  very  few." 

"  Then  tell  me,  who  is  that  lovely  girl  you  bowed  to 
as  you  came  into  the  room  ?" 

51 


THE    VULTURES 


tc 


Is  there  another  in  the  room?"  inquired  Deulinj 
looking  around  him  Avith  some  interest. 

"  Over  there,  with  the  fair  hair,  dressed  in  black." 

''  Ah !  talking  to  Cartoner.  Yes.  Do  you  think  her 
beautiful  ?" 

"  I  think  she  is  perfectly  lovely.  But  somehow  she 
does  not  look  like  one  of  us,  does  she  ?"  And  Miss  Ca- 
here  lowered  her  voice  in  a  rather  youthful  and  inex- 
perienced way. 

"  She  is  not  like  one  of  us,  Miss  Cahere,"  replied 
Deulin. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  we  are  plebeians,  and  she  is  a  princess." 

"  Oh,  then  she  is  married  ?"  exclaimed  Miss  Cahere, 
and  her  voice  fell  three  semitones  on  the  last  word. 

"  ]^o.  She  is  a  princess  in  her  own  right.  She  is  a 
Pole." 

Miss  Cahere  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"  Poor  thing,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  Princess  Wan- 
da, with  a  soft  light  of  sympathy  in  her  gentle  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  pity  her  ?"  asked  Deulin,  glancing 
down  sharply. 

"  Because  princesses  are  always  obliged  to  marry 
royalties,  are  they  not — for  convenience,  I  mean — not 
from  .  .  .  from  inclination,  like  other  girls  ?" 

And  Miss  Cahere's  eyelids  fluttered,  but  she  did  not 
actually  raise  her  eyes  towards  her  interlocutor.  An 
odd  smile  flickered  for  an  instant  on  Deulin's  lips. 

"  Ah !"  he  said,  with  a  sharp  sigh — and  that  was  all. 
He  bowed,  and  turned  away  to  speak  to  a  man  who  had 
been  waiting  at  his  elbow  for  some  minutes.  This  also 
was  a  Frenchman,  who  seemed  to  have  something  special 
to  report,  for  they  walked  aside  together. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  evening  before  Deulin  suc- 

52 


THE    yULTUKES 

ceeded  in  his  efforts  to  get  a  few  moments'  speech  -with 
Lady  Orlay.  He  found  that  unmatched  hostess  at 
leisure  in  the  brief  space  elapsing  between  the  arrival 
of  the  latest  and  the  departure  of  the  earliest. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you,"  she  said ;  "  you,  who  al- 
ways know  where  everybody  is.  Where  is  Mr.  Man- 
gles ?     An  under-secretary  was  asking  for  him  a  mo" 


ment  ago 


jj 


"  Mangles  is  listening  to  the  music  in  the  library — 
comparatively  happy  by  himself  behind  a  barricade  of 
flowers." 

"  And  that  preposterous  woman  ?" 

"  That  preposterous  woman  is  in  the  refreshment- 


room." 


Thus  they  spoke  of  the  great  lecturer  on  Prison 
Wrongs. 

"  You  have  seen  the  Bukatys  ?"  inquired  Lady  Or- 
lay. "  I  called  on  them  the  moment  I  received  your 
note  from  Paris.  They  are  here  to-night.  I  have 
never  seen  such  a  complexion.  Is  it  characteristic  of 
Poland  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Deulin,  with  unusual  short- 
ness, looking  away  across  the  room. 

Lady  Orlay's  clever  eyes  flashed  round  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  she  looked  grave.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
pushed  open  the  door  of  another  person's  room. 

"  I  like  the  old  man,"  she  said,  with  a  change  of  tone. 
,"  What  is  he?" 

"  He  is  a  rebel." 
,      "  Proscribed  ?" 

"  'No — they  dare  not  do  that.  He  was  a  great  man 
in  the  sixties.  You  remember  how  in  the  gTeat  insur- 
rection an  unfailing  supply  of  arms  and  ammunition 
came  pouring  into  Poland  over  the  Austrian  frontier — 

53 


THE     VULTUEES 

more   arms  than  the  national  government  could  find 
men  for." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that." 

"  That  is  the  man,"  said  Deulin,  with  a  nod  of  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  Prince  Bnkaty,  who  was 
talking  and  laughing  near  at  hand. 

"  And  the  girl — it  is  very  sad — I  like  her  very  much. 
She  is  gay  and  brave." 

"  Ah !"  said  Deulin,  "  when  a  woman  is  gay  and 
brave — and  young — Heaven  help  us." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur  Deulin." 

"  And  when  she  is  cav  and  brave,  and  .  .  .  old  .  .  . 
milady — God  keep  her,"  he  said,  with  a  grave  bow. 

"  I  liked  her  at  once.  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  anything 
I  can,  you  know.  She  has  a  great  capacity  for  making- 
friends." 

"  She  has  already  made  a  foe — this  evening,"  put 
in  the  Frenchman,  with  a  significant  gesture  of  his 
gloved  hand. 

"  Ah !" 

"  'Not  one  who  can  hurt  her,  I  think.  I  can  see  to 
that.  The  usual  enemy  —  of  a  pretty  girl  —  that  is 
all." 

He  broke  off  with  a  sudden  lauch.  Once  or  twice  he 
had  laughed  like  that,  and  his  manner  was  restless  and 
uneasy.  In  a  younger  man,  or  one  less  experienced  and 
hardened,  the  observant  might  have  suspected  some  hid- 
den excitement.  Lady  Orlay  turned  and  looked  at  him 
curiously,  with  the  frankness  of  a  friendship  which 
had  lasted  nearly  half  a  century. 

"What  is  it?" 

He  laughed — but  he  laughed  uneasily — and  spread 
out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  bewilderment. 

"  What  is  what  ?" 

54 


THE     VULTURES 

Lady  Orlay  looked  at  her  fan  reflectively  as  she 
opened  and  closed  it. 

"  Reginald  Cartoner  has  turned  up  quite  suddenly," 
she  said.  "  Mr.  Mangles  has  arrived  from  Washing- 
ton. You  are  here  from  Paris.  A  few  minutes  ago  old 
Karl  Steinmetz,  who  still  watches  the  nations  en  ama- 
teur, shook  hands  with  me.  This  Prince  Bukaty  is  not 
a  nonentity.  All  the  Vultures  are  assembling,  Paul, 
I  can  see  that.    I  can  see  that  my  husband  sees  it." 

"  Ah !  you  and  yours  are  safe  now.  You  are  in  the 
backwater — you  and  Orlay — quietly  moored  beneath 
the  trees." 

"  Finally,"  continued  Lady  Orlay,  without  heeding 
the  interruption,  "  you  come  to  me  with  a  light  in  your 
eye  which  I  have  seen  there  only  once  or  twice  during 
nearly  fifty  years.  It  means  war,  or  something  very 
like  it — the  Vultures." 

She  gave  a  little  shiver  as  she  looked  round  the  room. 
'After  a  short  silence  Deulin  rose  suddenly  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  You  are  too  discerning. 
Good-bye." 

"  You  are  going —  ?" 

"  Away,"  he  answered,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  de- 
scriptive of  space.     "  I  must  go  and  pack  my  trunks." 

Lady  Orlay  had  not  moved  when  Mr.  Mangles  came 
up  to  say  good-night.  Miss  Julia  P.  Mangles  bowed  in 
a  manner  which  she  considered  impressive  and  the 
world  thought  ponderous.  ISTetty  Cahere  murmured  a 
few  timid  words  of  thanks. 

"  We  shall  hope  to  see  you  again,"  said  Lady  Orlay 
to  Mr.  Mangles. 

"  'Fraid  not,"  he  answered ;  "  we're  going  to  travel 
on  the  Continent." 

55 


THE    VULTUKES 

*'  When  do  you  start  ?"  asked  her  ladyship. 

"  To-morrow  morning." 

"  Another  one,"  muttered  Lady  Orlay,  watching  Mr. 
Mangles  depart.  And  her  brief  reverie  was  broken  into 
bv  Retinal  Cartoner. 

"  You  have  come  to  say  good-bye,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  going  away  again  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  me  where  you  are  going." 

"  I  cannot,"  answered  Cartoner. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Lady  Orlay,  who,  as 
Paul  Deulin  had  said,  was  very  experienced  and  very 
discerning. 

"  You  are  going  to  Russia,  all  of  you." 


VII 

AT   THE   FEONTIER 


AYLIGHT  was    beginning    to  contend 


with  the  brilliant  electric  ilhiminatlon 
of  the  long  platform  as  that  which  is 
called  the  Warsaw  Express  steamed 
into  Alcxandrowo  Station.  There  are 
many  who  have  never  heard  of  Alcx- 
androwo, and  others  who  know  it  only  too  well. 

How  many  a  poor  devil  has  dropped  from  the  foot- 
board of  the  train  just  before  these  electric  lights  were 
reached — to  take  his  chance  of  crossing  the  frontier 
before  morning — history  will  never  tell !  How  many 
have  succeeded  in  passing  in  and  out  of  that  dread  rail- 
way station  with  a  false  passport  and  a  steady  face,  be- 
neath the  searching  eye  of  the  officials,  Heaven  only 
knows !  There  is  no  other  way  of  passing  Alexandrowo 
— of  getting  in  or  out  of  the  kingdom  of  Poland — but 
by  this  route.  Before  the  train  is  at  a  standstill  at 
the  platform  each  one  of  the  long  corridor  carriages  is 
boarded  by  the  man  in  the  dirty  white  trousers,  the 
green  tunic  and  green  cap,  the  top-boots,  and  the  maj- 
esty of  Russian  law.  Here,  whatever  time  of  day  or 
night,  winter  or  summer,  it  is  always  as  light  as  day, 
thanks  to  an  unsparing  use  of  electricity.  There  are 
always  sentries  on  the  outer  side  of  the  train.     The 

5T 


THE    VULTURES 

platform  is  a  prison-yard — the  waiting-rooms  are  prison- 
wards. 

With  a  passport  in  perfect  order,  vised  for  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  with  good  clothes,  good  Inggage, 
and  nothing  contraband  in  baggage  or  demeanor,  Alex- 
androwo  is  easy  enongh.  Obedience  and  patience  will 
see  the  traveller  throngh.  There  is  no  fear  of  his  being 
left  in  the  hnge  station,  or  of  his  going  anywhere  but 
to  his  avowed  and  rightful  destination.  But  with  a 
passport  that  is  old  or  torn,  with  a  visa  which  bears  any 
but  a  recent  date,  with  a  restless  eye  or  a  hunted  look, 
the  voA^ager  had  better  take  his  chance  of  dropping 
from  the  footboard  at  speed,  especially  if  it  be  a  misty 
night. 

Like  sheep,  the  passengers  are  driven  from  the  train 
in  which  not  so  much  as  a  newspaper  is  left.  Only  the 
sleeping-car  is  allowed  to  go  through,  but  it  is  emptied 
and  searched.  The  travellers  are  penned  within  a  large 
room  where  the  luggage  is  inspected,  and  they  are  de- 
prived of  their  passports.  When  the  customs  formali- 
ties are  over  they  are  allowed  to  find  the  refreshment- 
room,  and  there  console  themselves  with  weak  tea  in 
tumblers  until  such  time  as  they  are  released. 

The  train  on  this  occasion  was  a  full  one,  and  the 
great  inspection-room,  with  its  bare  walls  and  glaring 
lights,  crammed  to  overflowing.  The  majority  of  the 
travellers  seemed,  as  usual,  to  be  Germans.  There  were 
a  few  ladies.  And  two  men,  better  dressed  than  the 
others,  had  the  appearance  of  Englishmen.  They  drift- 
ed together — just  as  the  women  drifted  together  and 
the  little  knot  of  shady  characters  who  hoped  against 
hope  that  their  passports  were  in  order.  For  the  most 
part,  no  one  spoke,  though  one  German  commercial 
traveller  protested  with  so  much  warmth  that  an  ex- 

58 


AT     THE     FRONTIER 

ainination  of  his  trunks  was  nothing  but  an  intrusion 
on  the  officer's  valuable  time  that  a  few  essayed  to 
laugh  and  feel  at  their  ease. 

Reginald  Cartoner,  who  had  been  among  the  first  to 
quit  Lady  Orlay's,  was  an  easy  first  across  the  frontier. 
He  had  twelve  hours'  start  of  anybody,  and  was  twenty- 
four  hours  ahead  of  all  except  Paul  Deulin,  whose  train 
had  steamed  into  Berlin  Station  as  the  Warsaw  Express 
left  it.  He  seemed  to  know  the  ways  of  Alexandrowo, 
and  the  formalities  to  be  observed  at  that  frontier,  but 
he  was  not  eager  to  betray  his  knowledge.  He  obeyed 
with  a  silent  patience  the  instructions  of  the  white- 
aproned,  black  -  capped  porter  who  had  a  semi  -  official 
charge  of  him.  He  made  no  attempt  to  escape  an  ex- 
amination of  his  luggage,  and  he  avoided  the  refresh- 
ment-room tea. 

Cartoner  glanced  at  the  man,  whose  appearance 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  he  was  a  fellow-countryman, 
and  made  sure  that  he  did  not  know  him.  Then  he 
looked  at  him  again,  and  the  other  happened  to  turn  his 
profile.  Cartoner  recognized  the  profile,  and  drew 
away  to  the  far  corner  of  the  examination-room.  But 
they  drifted  together  again — or,  perhaps,  the  younger 
man  made  a  point  of  approaching.  It  was,  at  all  events, 
he  who,  when  all  had  been  marshalled  into  the  refresh- 
ment-room, drew  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  where  Cartoner  had  placed  himself. 

He  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee  in  Russian,  and  sought 
his  cigarette-case.  He  opened  it  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  in  front  of  Cartoner.  He  was  a  fair  young  man, 
with  an  energetic  manner  and  the  clear,  ruddy  com- 
plexion of  a  high-born  Briton. 

"  Englishman  ?"  he  said,  with  an  easy  and  friendly 
nod. 

59 


THE    VULTURES 

"  Yes,"  answered  Cartoner,  taking  the  proifered  ci- 
garette.    His  manner  was  oddly  stiff. 

"  Thought  you  Avere,"  said  the  other,  who,  though 
his  clothes  were  English  and  his  language  was  English, 
was  nevertheless  not  quite  an  Englishman.  There  was 
a  sort  of  eagerness  in  his  look,  a  picturesque  turn  of  the 
head — a  sense,  as  it  were,  of  the  outwardly  pictorial 
side  of  existence.  He  moved  his  chair,  in  order  to  turn 
his  back  on  a  Russian  officer  who  was  seated  near, 
and  did  it  absently,  as  if  mechanically  closing  his  eye 
to  something  unsightly  and  conducive  to  discomfort. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  coffee  with  a  youthful  spirit  of 
enjoyment. 

"  All  this  would  be  mildly  amusing,"  he  said,  "  at 
any  other  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  but  at  three  in  the 
morning  it  is  rather  poor  fun.  Do  you  succeed  in 
sleeping  in  these  German  schlaf  wagens  ?" 

"  I  can  sleep  anywhere,"  replied  Cartoner,  and  his 
companion  glanced  at  him  inquiringly.  It  seemed  that 
he  was  sleepy  now,  and  did  not  wish  to  talk. 

"  I  know  Alexandrowo  pretty  well,"  the  other  vol- 
unteered, nevertheless,  "  and  the  ways  of  these  gentle-^ 
men.  With  some  of  them  I  am  quite  on  friendly  terms. 
They  are  inconceivably  stupid ;  as  borne  as  —  the 
multiplication-table.  I  am  going  to  Warsaw ;  are  you  ? 
I  fancy  we  have  the  sleeping-car  to  ourselves.  I  live 
in  Warsaw  as  much  as  anj^vhere." 

He  paused  to  feel  in  his  pocket,  not  for  his  cigarettes 
this  time,  but  for  a  card. 

"I  know  who  you  are,"  said  Cartoner,  quietly:  "I 
recognized  you  from  your  likeness  to  your  sister.  I 
was  dancing  with  her  forty-eight  hours  ago  in  Lon- 
don." 

"  Wanda  ?"  inquired  tHe  other,  eagerly.     "  Dear  old 

.60, 


ti 


AT     THE     FRONTIEE 

Wanda  !    How  is  she  ?    She  wag  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
room,  I  bet." 

He  leaned  across  the  table. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  all  about  them.  But,  first, 
tell  me  your  name.  Wanda  writes  to  me  nearly  every 
day,  and  I  hear  about  all  their  friends — the  Orlays  and 
the  others.  What  is  vour  name  ?  She  is  sure  to  have 
made  mention  of  it  in  her  letters  ?" 

"  Eeffinald  Cartoner." 

"  Ah !    I  have  heard  of  you — but  not  from  Wanda." 

He  paused  to  reflect. 
Wo,"  he  added,  rather  wonderingly,  after  a  pause. 

]^o,  she  never  mentioned  your  name.  But,  of  course, 
I  know  it.  It  is  better  known  out  of  England  than  in 
your  own  country,  I  fancy.  Deulin — jou  know  Deu- 
lin? — has  spoken  to  us  of  you.  No  doubt  we  have 
dozens  of  other  friends  in  common.  We  shall  find  them 
out  in  time.  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you.  You  say  you 
know  my  name — yes,  I  am  Martin  Bukaty.  Odd  that 
you  should  have  recognized  me  from  my  likeness  to 
Wanda.  I  am  very  glad  you  think  I  am  like  her.  Dear 
old  Wanda !     She  is  a  better  sort  than  I  am,  you  know." 

And  he  finished  with  a  frank  and  hearty  laugh — • 
not  that  there  was  anything  to  laugh  at,  but  merely  be- 
cause he  was  young,  and  looked  at  life  from  a  cheer- 
ful standpoint. 

Cartoner  sipped  his  coffee,  and  looked  reflectively  at 
his  companion  over  the  cup.  "  Cartoner,"  Paul  Deulin 
had  once  said  to  a  common  friend,  "  weighs  you,  and 
naturally  finds  you  wanting."  It  seemed  that  he  was 
weighing  Prince  Martin  Bukaty  now. 

"  I  saw  your  father  also,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  He 
was  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  call,  which  I  did." 

*'  That  was  kind  of  you.     Of  course  we  know  no  one 

61 


THE    VULTURES 

in  London — no  one,  I  mean,  who  speaks  anything  ex- 
cept English,  That  is  a  thing  which  is  never  quite 
understood  on  the  Continent — that  if  you  go  to  Lon- 
don you  must  speak  English.  If  you  cannot,  you  had 
better  hang  yourself  and  be  done  with  it,  for  you  are 
practically  in  solitary  confinement.  My  father  does 
not  easily  make  friends — ^you  must  have  been  very 
civil  to  him." 

"  According  to  my  lights,  I  was,"  admitted  Car- 
toner. 

Martin  laughed  again.  It  is  a  gay  heart  that  can  be 
amused  at  three  in  the  mornins;. 

"  The  truth  is,"  continued  Martin,  in  his  quick  and 
rather  heedless  way,  "  that  we  Poles  are  under  a  cloud 
in  Europe  now.  We  are  the  wounded  man  by  the  side 
of  the  road  from  Jerusalem  down  to  Jericho,  and  there 
is  a  tendency  to  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  We  are  a 
nation  with  a  bad  want,  and  it  is  nobody's  business  to 
satisfy  it.  Everybody  is  ready,  however,  to  admit  that 
we  have  been  confoundedly  badly  treated." 

He  tossed  off  his  coffee  as  he  spoke,  and  turned  in 
his  chair  to  nod  an  acknowledgment  to  the  profound 
bows  of  a  gold-laced  official  who  had  approached  him, 
and  who  now  tendered  an  envelope,  with  some  mur- 
mured words  of  politeness. 

"  Thank  you — thank  you,"  said  Prince  Martin,  and 
slipped  the  envelope  within  his  pocket. 

"■  It  is  my  passport,"  he  explained  to  Cartoner, 
lightly.  "  All  the  rest  of  you  will  receive  yours  when 
you  are  in  the  train.  Mine  is  the  doubtful  privilege  of 
being  known  here,  and  being  a  suspected  character. 
So  they  are  doubly  polite  and  doubly  watchful.  As 
for  you,  at  Alexandrowo  you  rejoice  in  a  happy  ob- 
scurity.   You  will  pass  in  with  the  crowd,  I  suppose." 

62 


AT     THE     FRONTIER 

"  I  always  try  to,"  replied  Cartouer.  Which,  was 
strictly  true. 

"  You  see,"  went  on  Martin,  not  too  discreetly,  con- 
sidering their  environments,  "  we  cannot  forget  that  we 
were  a  great  nation  before  there  was  a  Russian  Empire 
or  an  Austrian  Empire  or  a  German  Empire.  We  are 
a  landlady  who  has  seen  better  days ;  who  has  let  her 
lodgings  to  three  foreigii  gentlemen  who  do  not  pay  the 
rent — who  make  us  clean  their  boots  and  then  cast 
them  at  our  heads." 

The  doors  of  the  great  room  had  now  been  thrown 
open,  and  the  passengers  were  passing  slowly  out  to  the 
long,  deserted  platform.  It  was  almost  daylight  now, 
and  the  train  was  drawn  up  in  readiness  to  start,  with 
a  fresh  ens-ine  and  new  officials.  The  homeliness  of 
Germany  had  vanished,  giving  place  to  that  subtle  sense 
of  discomfort  and  melancholy  which  hangs  in  the  air 
from  the  Baltic  to  the  Pacific  coast. 

"  I  hope  you  will  stay  a  long  time  in  Warsaw,"  said 
Martin,  as  they  walked  up  the  platform.  "  My  father 
and  sister  Avill  be  coming  home  before  long,  and  will  be 
glad  to  see  you.  We  will  do  what  we  can  to  make  the 
place  tolerable  for  you.  We  live  in  the  Kotzebue,  and 
I  have  a  liorse  for  you  when  you  want  it.  You  know 
we  have  good  horses  in  Warsaw,  as  good  as  any.  And 
the  only  way  to  see  the  country  is  from  the  saddle.  We 
have  the  best  horses  and  the  worst  roads." 

"  Thanks,  very  much,"  replied  Cartoner.  "  I,  of 
course,  do  not  know  how  long  I  shall  stay.  I  am  not 
my  own  master,  you  understand.  I  never  know  from 
one  day  to  another  what  my  movements  may  be." 

"  'No/'  replied  Martin,  in  the  absent  tone  of  one  who 
only  half  hears.  "  No,  of  course  not.  By-the-way,  we 
have  the  races  coming  on.    I  hope  you  will  be  here  for 

63 


THE     VULTUKES 

them.  In  our  small  way,  it  is  the  season  in  Warsaw 
now.  But,  of  course,  there  are  difficulties — even  the 
races  present  difficulties — there  is  the  military  ele- 
ment." 

He  paused,  and  indicated  with  a  short  nod  the  Rus- 
sian officer  who  was  passing  to  his  carriage  in  front  of 
them. 

"  They  have  the  best  horses,"  he  explained.  "  They 
have  more  money  than  we  have.  We  have  been  robbed, 
as  you  know.    You,  whose  business  it  is." 

He  turned,  with  his  foot  on  the  step  of  the  carriage. 
He  was  so  accustomed  to  the  recognition  of  his  rank 
that  he  went  first  without  question. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  had  quite  forgotten 
that  it  is  your  business  to  know  all  about  us." 

"  I  have  tried  to  remind  you  of  it  several  times," 
answered  Cartoner,  quietly. 

''  To  shut  me  up,  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

"  Yes." 

Martin  was  standing  at  the  door  of  Cartoner's  com- 
partment.   He  turned  away  with  a  laugh. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  "  Hope  you  will  get  some 
more  sleep.    We  shall  meet  again  in  a  few  hours." 

He  closed  the  sliding  door,  and  as  the  train  moved 
slowly  out  of  the  station  Cartoner  could  hear  the  cheer- 
ful voice — of  a  rather  high  timbre — in  conversation 
with  the  German  attendant  in  the  corridor.  For,  like 
nearly  all  his  countrymen,  Prince  Martin  was  a  man 
of  tongues.  The  Pole  is  compelled  by  circumstances 
to  learn  several  languages :  first,  his  own ;  then  the  lan- 
guage of  the  conqueror,  either  Russian  or  German,  or 
perhaps  both.  For  social  purposes  he  must  speak  the 
tongue  of  the  two  countries  that  promised  so  much  for 
Poland  and  performed  so  little — England  and  France. 

64 


AT     THE     FRONTIER 

Cartoner  sat  on  the  vacant  seat  in  bis  compartment, 
which  had  not  been  made  up  as  a  bed,  and  listened 
thoughtfully  to  the  pleasant  tones.  It  was  broad  day- 
light now,  and  the  flat,  carefully  cultivated  land  was 
green  and  fresh.  Cartoner  looked  out  of  the  window 
with  an  unseeing  eye,  and  the  sleeping-carriage  lum- 
bered along  in  silence.  The  Englishman  seemed  to 
have  no  desire  for  sleep,  though,  not  being  an  impression- 
able man,  he  was  iisually  able  to  rest  and  work,  fast 
and  eat  at  such  times  as  might  be  convenient.  He  was 
considered  by  his  friends  to  be  a  rather  cold,  steady 
man,  who  concealed  under  an  indifl^erent  manner  an 
almost  insatiable  ambition.  He  certainly  had  given 
way  to  an  entire  absorption  in  his  profession,  and  in  the 
dogged  acquirement  of  one  langiuage  after  another  as 
occasion  seemed  to  demand. 

He  had  been,  it  was  said,  more  than  usually  devoted 
to  his  profession,  even  to  the  point  of  sacrificing  friend- 
ships which,  from  a  social  and  possibly  from  an  am- 
bitious point  of  view,  could  not  have  failed  to  be  useful 
to  him.  Martin  Bukaty  was  not  the  first  man  whom  he 
had  kept  at  arm's-length.  But  in  this  instance  the 
treatment  had  not  been  markedly  successful,  and  Car- 
toner was  wondering  now  why  the  prince  had  been  so 
difiicult  to  offend.  He  had  refused  the  friendship,  and 
the  effect  had  only  been  to  bring  tlie  friend  nearer. 
Cartoner  sat  at  the  open  window  until  the  sun  rose  and 
the  fields  were  dotted  here  and  there  with  the  figures 
of  the  red-clad  peasant  women  working  at  the  crops. 
At  seven  o'clock  he  was  still  sitting  there,  and  soon  after 
Prince  Martin  Bukaty,  after  knocking,  drew  back  the 
sliding  door  and  came  into  the  compartment,  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  it,"  he  said,  in  his  quick 
^  65 


THE     VULTUKES 

way,  "  and  it  won't  do,  you  know — it  won't  do.  You 
cannot  appear  in  Warsaw  as  our  friend.  It  would 
never  do  for  us  to  show  special  attention  to  you.  Any- 
where else  in  the  world,  you  understand,  I  am  your 
friend,  but  not  in  Warsaw." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cartoner,  "  I  understand." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  for  Prince  Martin  was  holding 
out  his  hand. 

''  Good-bye,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet  way,  and  they  shook 
hands  as  the  train  glided  into  Warsaw  Station. 

In  the  doorway  Martin  turned  and  looked  back  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  All  the  same,  I  don't  understand  why  Wanda  did 
not  mention  your  name  to  me.  She  might  have  fore- 
seen that  we  should  meet.  She  is  quick  enough,  as  a 
rule,  and  has  already  saved  my  father  and  me  half  a 
dozen  times." 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  and  at  length  Cartoner 
spoke. 

"  She  did  not  know  tliat  I  was  coming,"  he  said. 


vin 

IN   A   REMOTE   CITY 

'HE  Vistula  is  the  backbone  of  Poland, 
and,  from  its  source  in  the  Carpathians 
to  its  mouth  at  Dantzic,  runs  the  whole 
length  of  that  which  for  three  hun- 
dred years  was  the  leading  power  of 
eastern  Europe.  At  Cracow  —  the 
tomb  of  many  kings — it  passes  half  round  the  citadel, 
a  shallow,  sluggisli  river;  and  from  the  ancient  capital 
of  Poland  to  the  present  capital — Warsaw — it  finds  its 
way  across  the  great  plain,  amid  the  cultivated  fields, 
through  the  quiet  villages  of  Galicia  and  Masovia. 

Warsaw  is  built  upon  two  sides  of  the  river,  the  an- 
cient town  looking  from  a  height  across  the  broad 
stream  to  the  suburb  of  Praga.  In  Praga — a  hundred 
years  ago — the  Russians,  under  Suvaroff,  slew  thir- 
teen thousand  Poles ;  in  the  river  between  Praga  and 
the  citadel  two  thousand  were  dro^vned.  Less  than 
forty  years  ago  a  crowd  of  Poles  assembled  in  the  square 
in  front  of  the  castle  to  protest  against  the  tyranny  of 
their  conquerors.  They  were  unarmed,  and  when  the 
Russian  soldiery  fired  upon  them  they  stood  and 
cheered,  and  refused  to  disperse.  Again,  in  cold  blood, 
the  troops  fired,  and  the  Warsaw  massacre  continued 
for  three  hours  in  the  streets. 

67 


THE     VULTUEES 

Warsaw  is  a  gay  and  cheerful  town,  witli  fine  streets 
and  good  shops,  with  a  cold,  gray  climate,  and  a  history 
as  grim  as  that  of  any  city  in  the  world  save  Paris. 
Like  most  cities,  Warsaw  has  its  principal  street,  and, 
like  all  things  Polish,  this  street  has  a  terrible  name — 
the  Krakowski  Przedmiescie.  It  is  in  this  Krakowski 
Pauhourg  that  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe  stands,  where 
history  in  its  time  has  played  a  part,  where  kings  and 
princes  have  slept,  where  the  Jew  Hermani  was  mur- 
dered, where  the  bodies  of  the  first  five  victims  of  the 
Russian  soldiery  were  carried  after  the  massacre  and 
there  photographed,  and,  finally,  where  the  great  light 
from  the  West — Miss  Julie  P.  Mangles — alighted  one 
May  morning,  looking  a  little  dim  and  travel-stained. 

"  Told  you,"  said  Mr.  Mangles  to  his  sister,  who  for 
so  lofty  a  soul  was  within  almost  measurable  distance 
of  snappishness — "  told  you  you  would  have  nothing  to 
complain  of  in  the  hotel,  Jooly." 

But  Miss  Mangles  was  not  to  be  impressed  or  molli- 
fied. Only  once  before  had  her  brother  and  niece  seen 
this  noble  woman  in  such  a  frame  of  mind — on  their 
arrival  at  the  rising  town  of  ISTew  Canterbury,  Massa- 
chusetts, when  the  deputation  of  Women  Workers  and 
Wishful  Waiters  for  the  Truth  failed  to  reach  the  rail- 
way depot  because  they  happened  on  a  fire  in  a  straw- 
hat  manufactory  on  their  way,  and  heard  that  the  new- 
est pattern  of  straw  hat  was  to  be  had  for  the  picking 
up  in  the  open  street. 

There  had  been  no  deputation  at  Warsaw  Station  to 
meet  Miss  Mangles.  London  had  not  recognized  her. 
Berlin  had  shaken  its  official  head  when  she  proposed 
to  visit  its  plenipotentiaries,  and  hers  was  the  ignoble 
position  of  the  prophet — not  without  honor  in  his  own 
country — who  cannot  get  a  hearing  in  foreign  parts. 

68 


IN     A     EEMOTE     CITY 

"  This  is  even  worse  than.  I  anticipated,"  said  Miss 
Mangles,  watching  the  hotel  porters  in  a  conflict  with 
Miss  Netty  Cahere's  large  trunks. 

"  What  is  worse,  Jooly  ?" 

"  Poland !"  replied  Miss  Mangles,  in  a  voice  full  of 
forebodijig,  and  yet  with  a  ring  of  determination  in  it, 
as  if  to  say  that  she  had  reformed  worse  countries  than 
Poland  in  her  day. 

"  I  allow,"  said  Mr.  Mangles,  slowly,  "  that  at  this 
hour  in  the  morning  it  appears  to  be  a  one-horse  coun- 
try.   You  want  your  breakfast,  Jooly  ?" 

"  Breakfast  will  not  put  two  horses  to  it,  Joseph," 
replied  Miss  Mangles,  looking  not  at  her  brother,  but 
at  the  imposing  hotel  concierge  Avith  a  bland  severity 
indicative  of  an  intention  of  keeping  him  strictly  in  his 
place. 

Miss  Netty  quietly  relieved  her  aunt  of  the  small 
impedimenta  of  travel,  with  a  gentle  deference  which 
was  better  than  words.  Miss  Cahere  seemed  always  to 
know  how  to  say  or  do  the  right  thing,  or,  more  difficult 
still,  to  keep  the  right  silence.  Either  this,  or  the  fact 
that  Miss  Mangles  was  conscious  of  having  convinced 
her  hearers  that  she  was  as  expert  in  the  lighter  sword- 
play  of  debate  as  in  the  rolling  platform  period,  some- 
what alleviated  the  lady's  humor,  and  she  turned 
towards  the  historic  staircase,  which  had  run  with  the 
blood  of  Jew  and  Pole,  with  a  distinct  air  of  condescen- 
sion. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Mangles  to  the  con- 
cierge, in  a  voice  of  deep  depression  which  only  added 
to  the  incongruity  of  his  French,  "  what  languages 
you  speak." 

"'  Russian,  I'rench,  Polish,  German,  English — " 
<*."  That  'U  dvi)  to  go  on  with,"  interrupted  Mangles,  in 

69 


THE     VULTURES 

his  own  tongue.     "  We'll  get  along  in  English.     My 
name  is  Mangles." 

Whereupon  the  porter  bowed  low,  as  to  one  for  whom 
first-floor  rooms  and  a  salon  had  been  bespoken,  and 
waved  his  hand  towards  the  stairs,  where  stood  a  couple 
of  waiters. 

Of  the  party,  Miss  Cahere  alone  appeared  cool  and 
composed  and  neat.  She  might,  to  judge  from  her 
bright  eyes  and  delicate  complexion,  have  slept  all  night 
in  a  comfortable  bed.  Her  hat  and  her  hair  had  the 
appearance  of  having  been  arranged  at  leisure  by  a 
maid.  Miss  ISTetty  had  on  the  surface  a  little  manner 
of  self-depreciating  flurry  which  sometimes  seemed  to 
conceal  a  deep  and  abiding  calm.  She  had  little  world- 
ly theories,  too,  which  she  often  enunciated  in  her  con- 
fidential manner ;  and  one  of  these  was  that  one  should 
always,  in  all  places  and  at  all  times,  be  neat  and  tidy, 
for  no  one  knows  whom  one  may  meet.  And,  be  it  noted 
in  passing,  there  have  been  many  successful  human 
careers  based  upon  this  simple  rule. 

She  followed  the  waiter  up-stairs  with  that  soft  rustle 
of  the  dress  which  conveys  even  to  the  obtuse  masculine 
mind  a  care  for  clothes  and  the  habit  of  dealing  with 
a  good  dressmaker.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs  she  gave 
a  little  cry  of  surprise,  for  Paul  Deulin  was  coming 
along  the  broad  corridor  towards  her,  swinging  the  key 
of  his  bedroom  and  nonchalantly  humming  an  air  from 
a  recent  comic  opera.  He  was,  it  appeared,  as  much 
at  home  here  as  in  London  or  Paris  or  New  York. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle !"  he  said,  standing  hat  in  hand 
before  her,  "  who  could  have  dreamed  of  such  a  pleasure 
— here  and  at  this  moment — in  this  sad  town  ?" 

"  You  seemed  gay  enough — ^you  were  singing,"  an- 
BV/ered  Miss  Cahere. 

70 


IN     A     REMOTE     CITY 

"  It  was  a  sad  little  air,  mademoiselle,  and  I  was 
singing  flat.    Perhaps  you  noticed  it  ?" 

"  'No,  I  never  know  when  people  are  singing  flat  or 
not.  I  have  no  ear  for  music.  I  only  know  when  I  like 
to  hear  a  person's  voice.  I  have  no  accomplishments, 
you  know,"  said  jSTetty,  with  a  little  humble  drawing- 
in  of  the  shoulders. 

"Ah!"  said  Deulin,  with  a  gesture  which  conveyed 
quite  clearly  his  opinion  that  she  had  need  of  none. 
And  he  turned  to  greet  Miss  Mangles  and  her  brother. 

Miss  Mangles  received  him  coldly.  Even  the  great- 
est of  women  is  liable  to  feminine  moments,  and  may 
know  when  she  is  not  looking  her  best.  She  shook 
hands,  with  her  platform  bow — from  the  waist — and 
passed  on. 

''  Halloo!"  said  Joseph  Mangles.  "  Got  here  before 
us  ?    Thought  you'd  turn  up.    Dismal  place,  eh  ?" 

"  You  have  just  arrived,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Deulin. 

"Oh,  please  don't  laugh  at  us!"  broke  in  ISTetty. 
"  Of  course  you  can  see  that.  You  must  know  that  we 
have  just  come  out  of  a  sleeping-car !" 

"  You  always  look,  mademoiselle,  as  if  you  had  come 
straight  from  heaven,"  answered  Deulin,  looking  at 
Miss  Cahere,  whose  hand  was  at  her  hair.  It  was  pretty 
hair  and  a  pretty,  slim,  American  hand.  But  she  did 
not  seem  to  hear,  for  she  had  turned  away  quickly  and 
was  speaking  to  her  uncle.  Deulin  accompanied  them 
along  the  corridor,  which  is  a  long  one,  for  the  Hotel  de 
I'Europe  is  a  huge  quadrangle. 

"  You  startled  me  by  your  sudden  appearance,  you 
know,"  she  said,  turning  again  to  the  Frenchman, 
which  was  probably  intended  for  an  explanation  of  her 
heightened  color.  She  was  one  of  those  fortunate  per- 
sons who  blush  easily — at  the  right  time.     "  I  am  sure 

71 


THE    VULTUEES 

Uncle  Joseph  will  be  pleased  to  have  you  in  the  same 
hotel.  Of  course,  we  know  no  one  in  Warsaw.  Have 
you  friends  here  ?" 

"  Only  one,"  replied  Deulin  —  "  the  waiter  who 
serves  the  Zakuska  counter  down-stairs.  I  knew  him 
when  he  was  an  Austrian  nobleman,  travelling  for 
his  health  in  France.  He  does  not  recognize  me 
now." 

"  Will  you  stay  long  ?" 

"  I  did  not  intend  to,"  replied  Deulin,  "  when  I 
came  out  of  my  room  this  morning." 

"  But  you  and  Mr.  Cartoner  have  Polish  friends, 
have  you  not  ?"  asked  l^etty. 

"  Not  in  Warsaw,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Suppose  we  shall  meet  again,"  broke  in  Joseph 
Mangles  at  this  moment,  halting  on  the  threshold  of 
the  gorgeous  apartment.  He  tapped  the  number  on  the 
door  in  order  to  draw  Deulin's  attention  to  it.  "  Al- 
ways welcome,"  he  said.  "  Funny  we  should  meet 
here.    Means  mischief,  I  sujopose." 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  answered  Deulin,  looking  guile- 
lessly at  Netty. 

He  took  his  leave  and  continued  his  way  do^vn- 
stairs.  Out  in  the  Krakowski  Faubourg  the  sun  was 
shining  brightly  and  the  world  was  already  astir,  while 
the  shops  were  opening  and  buyers  already  hurrying 
home  from  the  morning  markets.  It  is  a  broad  street, 
with  palaces  and  churches  on  either  side.  Every  palace 
has  its  story;  two  of  them  were  confiscated  by  the  Rus- 
sian government  because  a  bomb,  which  was  thro^vn 
from  the  pavement,  might  possibly  have  come  from  one 
of  the  windows.  Every  church  has  rung  to  the  strains 
of  the  forbidden  Polish  hymn — "  At  Thy  altar  we 
raise  our  prayer ;  deign  to  restore  us,  O  Lord,  our  free 

Y2 


IN    A    REMOTE     CITY 

country."     Into  almost  all  of  them  the  soldiers  have 
forced  their  way  to  make  arrests. 

Paul  Deulin  walked  slowly  up  the  faubourg  towards 
the  new  town.  The  clocks  were  striking  the  hour.  He 
took  off  his  hat,  and  gave  a  little  sigh  of  enjoyment  of 
the  fresh  air  and  bright  sun. 

"  Just  Heaven,  forgive  me !"  he  said,  with  upturned 
eyes.  "  I  have  already  told  several  lies,  and  it  is  only 
eight  o'clock.  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  find  Cartoner 
out  of  bed  ?" 

He  walked  on  in  a  leisurely  way,  brushing  past  Jew 
and  Gentile,  gay  Cossack  officers,  and  that  dull  Polish 
peasant  who  has  assuredly  lived  through  greater  perse- 
cution than  any  other  class  of  men.  lie  turned  to  the 
right  up  a  broad  street  and  then  to  the  left  into  a  nar- 
rower, quieter  thoroughfare,  called  the  Jasna.  The 
houses  in  the  Jasna  are  mostly  large,  with  court-yards, 
where  a  few  trees  struggle  for  existence.  They  are  let 
out  in  flats,  or  in  even  smaller  apartments,  where  quiet 
people  live  —  professors,  lawyers,  and  other  persons, 
who  have  an  interest  within  themselves  and  are  not  de- 
pendent on  the  passer-by  for  entertainment. 

Into  one  of  these  large  houses  Deulin  turned,  and 
gave  his  destination  to  the  Russian  doorkeeper  as  he 
passed  the  lodge.  This  was  the  second  floor,  and  the 
door  was  opened  by  a  quick-mannered  man,  to  whom  the 
Erenchman  nodded  familiarly. 

"  Is  he  up  yet  ?"  he  inquired,  and  called  the  man  by, 
bis  Christian  name. 

"  This  hour,  monsieur,"  replied  the  servant,  leading 
the  way  along  a  narrow  corridor.  He  opened  a  door, 
and  stood  aside  for  Deulin  to  pass  into  a  comfortably 
furnished  room,  where  Cartoner  was  seated  at  a  writing- 
table. 

73 


THE     VULTURES 

"  Good-morning,"  said  the  Frenchman.  As  lie  passed 
the  table  he  took  up  a  book  and  went  towards  the  win- 
dow, where  he  sat  down  in  a  deep  arm-chair.  "  Don't 
let  me  disturb  you,"  he  continued.  "  Finish  what  you 
are  doing." 

"  !News  ?"  inquired  Cartoner,  laying  aside  his  pen. 
He  looked  at  Deulin  gravely  beneath  his  thoughtful 
brows.  They  were  marvellously  dissimilar  —  these 
friends. 

"  Bah !"  returned  Deulin,  throwing  aside  the  book 
he  had  picked  up — Lelewel's  History  of  Poland,  in 
Polish.  "  I  tremble  for  your  future,  Cartoner.  You 
take  life  so  seriously — you,  who  need  not  work  at  all. 
Even  uncles  cannot  live  forever,  and  come  day  you 
will  be  in  a  position  to  lend  money  to  poor  devils  of 
French  diplomatists.     Think  of  that !" 

He  reflected  for  a  moment. 

'"  Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  have  news  of  all 
sorts — news  which  goes  to  prove  that  you  are  quite  right 
to  take  an  apartment  instead  of  going  to  the  hotel.  The 
Mangles  arrived  here  this  morning  —  Mangles  f rere, 
Mangles  soeur,  and  Miss  Cahere.  I  say,  Cartoner — " 
He  paused,  and  examined  his  own  boots  with  a  critical 
air. 

"  I  say,  Cartoner,  how  old  do  you  put  me  ?" 

"  Fifty." 

"  All  that,  mon  cher  ? — all  that  ?  Old  enough  to  play 
the  part  of  an  old  fool  who  excels  all  other  fools." 

Cartoner  took  up  his  pen  again.  He  had  suddenly 
thought  of  something  to  put  down,  and  in  his  odd,  di- 
rect way  proceeded  to  write,  while  Deulin  watched  him. 

"  I  say,"  said  the  Frenchman  at  length,  and  Cartoner 
paused,  pen  in  hand — "  what  would  you  think  of  me 
if  I  fell  in  love  with  Netty  Cahere  ?" 

74 


IN     A     EEMOTE     CITY 


iC 


1  should  think  you  a  very  lucky  mau  if  Ketty  Ca- 
here  fell  in  love  with  you,"  was  the  reply. 

The  Frenchman  shi'ugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  have  known  you  a  good  many 
years,  and  have  gathered  that  that  is  your  way  of  look- 
ing at  things.  You  want  your  wife  to  be  in  love  with 
you.  Odd!  I  suppose  it  is  English.  Well,  I  don't 
know  if  there  is  any  harm  done,  but  I  certainly  had  n 
queer  sensation  when  I  saw  Miss  Cahcre  suddenly  this 
morning.    You  think  her  a  nice  girl  ?" 

"  Very  nice,"  replied  Cartoner,  gravely. 

Deulin  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  smile,  but  Cartoner 
was  looking  at  the  letter  before  him. 

"  What  I  like  about  her  is  her  quiet  ways,"  suggested 
Deulin,  tentatively. 

"  Yes." 

Then  they  lapsed  into  silence,  while  Cartoner  thought 
of  his  letter.  Deulin,  to  judge  from  a  couple  of  sharp 
sighs  which  caught  him  unawares,  must  have  been  think- 
ing of  I^etty  Cahere.  At  length  the  Frenchman  rose 
and  took  his  leave,  making  an  appointment  to  dine  with 
Cartoner  that  evening. 

Out  in  the  street  he  took  off  his  hat  to  high  heaven 


again. 


More  lies !"  he  murmured,  humbly. 


rx 

THE   SAND-WORKERS 

^T  the  foot  of  tlie  steep  and  narrow  Bed- 
narska — the  street  running  down  from 
the  Cracow  Faubourg  to  the  river — 
there  are  always  many  workers.  It  is 
here  that  the  bathing-houses  and  the 
boat-houses  are.  Here  lie  the  steamers 
that  ply  slowly  on  the  shallow  river.  Here,  also,  is  a 
trade  in  timber  where  from  time  to  time  one  of  the 
smaller  rafts  that  float  from  the  Carpathians  down  to 
Dantzic  is  moored  and  broken  up.  Here,  also,  are  loaf- 
ers, who,  like  flies,  congregate  naturally  near  the  water. 
A  few  hundred  yards  higher  up  the  river,  between 
the  Bednarska  and  the  spacious  Jerozolimska  Alley, 
many  carts  and  men  work  all  day  in  the  sand  which  the 
Vistula  deposits  along  her  low  banks.  The  Jerozo- 
limska starts  hopefully  from  the  higher  parts  of  the 
city — the  widest,  the  newest,  the  most  Parisian  street 
in  the  town,  Warsaw's  only  boulevard — down  the  hill, 
as  if  it  expected  to  find  a  bridge  at  the  bottom.  But 
there  is  no  bridge  there,  and  the  fine  street  dwindles 
away  to  sandy  ruts  and  a  broken  tow-path.  Here  horses 
struggle  vainly  to  drag  heavy  sand-carts  from  the  ruts, 
while  their  drivers  swear  at  them  and  the  sand-workers 
lean  on  their  spades  and  watch.  A  cleaner  sand  is 
dredged  from  the  middle  or  brought  across  in  deep- 

,76 


THE     SAND-WOKKEKS 

laden  punts  from  the  many  banks  that  render  naviga- 
tion next  to  impossible — a  clean,  hard  sand,  most  ex- 
cellent for  building  purposes. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  mid-day  dinner — for  Polish 
hours  are  the  hours  of  the  early  Victorian  meals. 
Horses  and  men  were  alike  at  rest.  The  horses  nibbled 
at  the  thin  grass,  while  the  men  sat  by  the  water  and  ate 
their  gray  bread,  which  only  tastes  of  dampness  and 
carraway-seeds.  It  was  late  autumn,  and  the  sun  shone 
feebly  through  a  yellow  haze.  The  scene  was  not  ex- 
hilarating. The  Vistula,  to  put  it  plainly,  is  a  dismal 
river.  Poland  is  a  dismal  country.  A  witty  French- 
man, who  knew  it  well,  once  said  that  it  is  a  country  to 
die  for,  but  not  to  live  in. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  workmen  should  group 
together  for  their  uninteresting  meal.  The  sand- 
bank offered  a  comfortable  seat.  Their  position  was  in 
a  sense  a  strategetical  one.  They  were  in  full  view  of 
the  bridge  and  of  the  high  land  behind  them,  but  no 
one  could  approach  within  half  a  mile  unperceived. 

"  Yes,"  one  of  the  workmen  was  saying,  "  those  who 
know  sa}"^  that  there  will  inevitably  be  a  kingdom  of  Po- 
land again.  Some  day.  And  if  some  day,  why  not 
now  ?    Why  not  this  time  ?" 

His  hearers  continued  to  eat  in  silence.  Some  were 
slightly  built,  oval-faced  men — real  Poles;  others  had 
the  narrower  look  of  the  Lithuanian ;  while  a  third  type 
possessed  the  broad  and  placid  face  that  comes  from 
Posen.  Some  were  born  to  this  hard  work  of  the  sand- 
hills ;  others  had  that  look  in  the  eyes,  that  carriage  of 
the  head,  which  betokens  breeding  and  suggests  an  an- 
cestral story. 

"  The  third  time,  they  say,  is  lucky,"  answered  a 
white-haired  man,  at  length.     He  was  a  strong  man, 

77 


THE    VULTURES 

with  the  lines  of  hunger  cut  deeply  in  his  face.  The 
work  was  nothing  to  him.  He  had  labored  elsewhere. 
The  others  turned  and  looked  at  him,  but  he  said  no 
more.  He  glanced  across  the  river  towards  the  spires 
of  Praga  pointing  above  the  brown  trees.  Perhaps  he 
was  thinking  of  those  other  times,  which  he  must  have 
seen  fifty  years  and  twenty  years  ago.  His  father  must 
have  seen  Praga  paved  with  the  dead  bodies  of  its  peo- 
ple. He  must  have  seen  the  river  run  sluggish  with  the 
same  burden.  He  may  have  seen  the  people  shot  down 
in  the  streets  of  Warsaw  only  twenty  years  before.  His 
eyes  had  the  dull  look  which  nearly  always  betokens 
some  grim  vision  never  forgotten.  He  seemed  a  placid 
old  man,  and  was  known  as  an  excellent  worker,  though 
cruel  to  his  horses. 

He  who  had  first  spoken — a  boatman  known  as  Kos- 
maroff — was  a  spare  man,  with  a  narrow  face  and  a 
long,  pointed  chin,  hidden  by  a  neat  beard.  He  was  not 
more  than  thirty-five  years  old,  and  presented  no  out- 
ward appearance  of  having  passed  through  hardships. 
His  manner  was  quick  and  vivacious,  and  when  he 
laughed,  which  was  not  infrequent,  his  mouth  gave  an 
odd  twist  to  the  left.  The  corner  went  upward  towards 
the  eye.  His  smile  was  what  the  French  call  a  pale 
smile.  At  times,  but  very  rarely,  a  gleam  of  reckless- 
ness passed  through  his  dark  eyes.  He  had  been  a  rafts- 
man, and  was  reputed  to  be  the  most  daring  of  those 
little-known  watermen  at  flood-times  and  in  the  early 
thaw.  He  glanced  towards  the  old  man  as  if  hoping 
that  more  was  coming. 

"  Yes,  it  will  bo  the  third  time,"  he  said,  when  the 
other  had  lapsed  into  a  musing  silence,  "  though  few 
of  us  have  seen  it  with  our  own  eyes.  But  we  have 
other  means  of  remembering.     We  have  also  the  ex- 

18 


THE     SAND-WORKERS 

perience  of  our  forefathers  to  guide  us — though  we  can- 
not say  that  our  forefathers  have  told  us — " 

He  broke  off  with  a  short  laugh.  His  grandfather 
had  died  at  Praga;  his  father  had  gone  to  Siberia  to 
perish  there, 

"  We  shall  time  it  better,"  he  said,  "  than  last  time. 
We  have  men  watching  the  political  world  for  us.  The 
two  emperors  are  marked  as  an  old  man  is  marked  by 
those  who  are  named  in  his  will.  If  anything  happened 
to  Bismarck,  if  Austria  and  Russia  were  to  fall  out,  if 
the  dogs  should  quarrel  among  themselves — the  three 
dogs  that  have  torn  Poland  to  pieces !  Anything  would 
do!  They  knew  the  Crimean  War  was  coming.  Eng- 
land and  France  were  so  slow.  And  they  threw  a  hun- 
dred thousand  men  into  Warsaw  before  they  turned  to 
the  English.     That  showed  what  they  thought  of  us !" 

The  others  listened,  looking  patiently  at  the  river. 
The  spirit  of  some  was  broken.  There  is  nothing  like 
hunger  for  breaking  the  spirit.  Others  looked  doubtful, 
for  one  reason  or  another.  These  men  resembled  a 
board  of  directors — some  of  them  knew  too  little,  others 
too  much.  It  seemed  to  be  Kosmaroff's  mission  to  keep 
them  up  to  a  certain  mark  by  his  boundless  optimism, 
his  unquestioning  faith  in  a  good  cause. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you,"  said  one,  a  little  fat 
man  with  beady  eyes.  Fat  men  with  beady  eyes  are  not 
usually  found  in  near  proximity  to  danger  of  any  sort — 
"  you,  who  are  an  aristocrat,  and  have  nothing  to  lose !" 

Kosmaroff  ate  his  bread  with  an  odd  smile.  He  did 
not  look  towards  the  speaker.  He  knew  the  voice  per- 
haps, or  he  knew  that  the  great  truth  that  a  man's  char- 
acter is  ever  bubbling  to  his  lips,  and  every  spoken  word 
is  a  part  of  it  running  over. 

"  There  are  many  who  can  be  aristocrats  some  day — 

n 


THE    VULTUEES 

with  a  little  good-fortune,"  he  said,  and  the  beady  eyes 
brightened. 

"  I  lost  five  at  Praga,"  muttered  an  elderly  man, 
who  had  the  subdued  manner  of  the  toiler.  "  That  is 
enough  for  me." 

"  It  is  well  to  remember  Praga,"  returned  Kosmaroff, 
in  a  hard  monotone.  "  It  is  well  to  remember  that  the 
Muscovites  have  never  kept  to  their  word!  There  is 
much  to  remember !" 

And  a  munnur  of  unforgetfulness  came  from  the 
listeners.  Kosmaroff  glanced  sideways  at  two  men  who 
sat  shoulder  to  shoulder  staring  sullenlv  across  the  river. 

"  I  may  be  an  aristocrat  by  descent,"  he  said,  "  but 
what  does  that  come  to?  I  am  a  raftsman.  I  work 
with  my  hands,  like  any  other.  To  be  a  Polish  aristo- 
crat is  to  have  a  little  more  to  give.  They  have  always 
done  it.  They  are  ready  to  do  it  again.  Look  at  the 
Bukatys  and  a  hundred  others,  who  could  go  to  France 
and  live  there  peaceably  in  the  sunshine.  I  could  do  it 
myself.  But  I  am  here.  The  Bukatys  are  here.  They 
will  finish  by  losing  everything — the  little  they  have 
left — or  else  they  will  win  everything.  And  I  know 
which  they  will  do.  They  will  win !  The  prince  is 
wise.    Prince  Martin  is  brave ;  we  all  know  that !" 

"  And  when  they  have  won  will  they  remember  ?" 
asked  one  of  the  two  smaller  men,  throwing  a  brown 
and  leathery  crust  into  the  river. 

"  If  they  are  given  anything  worth  remembering 
they  will  not  forget  it.  You  may  rely  on  that.  They 
know  what  each  gives — whether  freely  or  with  a  nig- 
gard hand — and  each  shall  be  paid  back  in  his  own 
coin.  They  give  freely  enough  themselves.  It  is  al- 
ways so  with  the  aristocrats;  but  they  expect  an  equal 
generosity  in  others,  which  is  only  right !" 

80 


THE     SAND-WOKKEKS 

The  men  sat  in  a  row  facing  the  slow  river.  They 
were  toil-worn  and  stained ;  their  clothing  was  in  rags. 
But  beneath  their  sandy  hair  more  than  one  pair  of 
eyes  gleamed  from  time  to  time  with  a  sudden  anger, 
with  an  intelligence  made  for  higher  things  than  spade 
and  oar.  As  they  sat  there  they  were  like  the  notes  of 
a  piano,  and  Kosmaroff  played  the  instrument  with  a 
sure  touch  that  brought  the  fullest  vibration  out  of 
each  chord.  He  was  a  born  leader;  an  organizer  not 
untouched  perchance  by  that  light  of  genius  which  en- 
ables some  to  organize  the  souls  of  men. 

iKTor  was  he  only  a  man  of  words,  as  so  many  patriots 
are.  He  was  that  dangerous  product,  a  Pole  born  in 
Siberia.  He  had  served  in  a  Cossack  regiment.  The 
son  of  convict  jSTo.  2704,  he  was  the  mere  offspring 
of  a  number — a  thing  not  worth  accounting.  In  his 
regiment  no  one  noticed  him  much,  and  none  cared 
when  he  disappeared  from  it.  And  now  here  he  was 
back  in  Poland,  with  a  Russian  name  for  daily  use  and 
another  name  hidden  in  his  heart  that  had  blazed  all 
over  Poland  once.  Here  he  was,  a  raftsman  plying 
between  Cracow  and  Warsaw,  those  two  hot-beds  of 
Polish  patriotism — a  mere  piece  of  human  driftwood 
on  the  river.  He  had  made  the  usual  grand  tour  of 
Russia's  deadliest  enemies.  He  had  been  to  Siberia 
and  Paris  and  London.  He  might  have  lived  abroad, 
as  he  said,  in  the  sunshine ;  but  he  preferred  Poland  and 
its  gray  skies,  manual  labor,  and  the  bread  that  tastes 
of  dampness.  Eor  he  believed  that  a  kingdom  which 
stood  in  the  forefront  for  eight  centuries  cannot  die. 
There  are  others  who  cherish  the  same  belief. 

"  This  time,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  I  have 
news  for  you.     We  are  a  little  nearer.    It  is  our  object 
to  be  ready,  and  then  to  wait  patiently  until  some  event 
^  8X 


THE     VULTURES 

in  Europe  gives  us  our  opportunity.  Last  time  they 
acted  at  the  wrong  moment.  This  time  we  shall  not  do 
that,  but  we  shall  nevertheless  act  with  decision  when 
the  moment  arrives.  We  are  a  step  nearer  to  readiness, 
and  we  owe  it  to  Prince  Martin  Bukaty  again.  He  is 
never  slow  to  put  his  head  in  the  noose,  and  laughs  with 
the  rope  around  his  neck.  And  he  has  succeeded  again, 
for  he  has  the  luck.  We  have  five  thousand  rifles  in 
Poland—" 

He  paused  and  looked  do^\Ti  the  line  of  grimy  faces, 
noting  that  some  lighted  up  and  others  drooped.  The 
fat  little  man  with  the  heady  eyes  blinked  as  he  stared 
resolutely  across  the  river. 

"  In  Warsaw !"  he  added,  significantly.  "  So,  if 
there  are  any  who  think  that  the  cause  is  a  dead  one, 
they  had  better  say  so  now — and  take  the  consequences." 
He  concluded  rather  grimly,  with  his  one-sided  smile. 

jSTo  one  seemed  disposed  to  avail  himself  of  this  in- 
vitation. 

"  And  there  is  ammunition  enough,"  continued  Kos- 
maroff,  "  to  close  the  account  of  every  Muscovite  in 
Warsaw !" 

His  voice  vibrated  as  he  spoke,  with  the  cold  and 
steady  hatred  of  the  conquered ;  but  on  his  face  there 
only  rested  the  twisted  smile. 

"  I  tell  you  this,"  he  went  on,  "  because  I  am  likely 
to  go  to  Cracow  before  long,  and  so  that  you  may  know 
what  is  expected  of  you.  Certain  events  may  be  taken 
beforehand  as  a  sure  signal  for  assembly — such  as  the 
death  of  either  emperor,  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  or  of 
Bismarck,  the  declaration  of  war  by  any  of  the  great 
powers.  There  is  always  something  seething  on  the 
Indian  frontier,  and  one  day  the  English  will  awake. 
The  Warsaw  papers  will  not  have  the  news;  but  the 

82 


THE     SAHD-WORKERS 

Czas  and  the  other  Cracow  journals  will  tell  you  soon 
enough,  and  you  can  all  see  the  Galician  papers  when 
you  want  to,  despite  their  censors  and  their  police !" 

A  contemptuous  laugh  from  the  fat  man  confirmed 
this  statement.  This  was  his  department.  In  many 
men  cunning  takes  the  place  of  courage. 

At  this  moment  the  steam-whistle  of  the  iron-works 
farther  up  the  river  boomed  out  across  the  plain.  The 
bells  of  the  city  churches  broke  out  into  a  clanging 
unanimity  as  to  the  time  of  day,  and  all  the  workers 
stirred  reluctantly.     The  dinner-hour  was  over. 

Kosmaroff  rose  to  his  feet  and  stretched  himself — a 
long,  lithe,  wiry  figure. 

"  Come,"  he  said.    "  We  must  go  back  to  work." 

He  glanced  from  face  to  face,  and  any  looking  with 
understanding  at  his  narrow  countenance,  his  steady, 
dark  eyes,  and  clean-cut  nose  must  have  realized  that 
they  stood  in  the  presence  of  that  rare  and  indefinable 
creation — a  strong  man. 


X 

A  WAKNING 

jT  is  a  matter  of  history  that  the  division 
of  Poland  into  three  saved  many  fam- 
ilies  from  complete  ruin.  Tor  some 
suffered  confiscation  in  the  kingdom  of 
Poland  and  saved  their  property  in 
Galicia ;  others,  again,  in  Posen  had 
estates  in  Masovia,  which  even  Russian  justice  could 
not  lay  hands  upon — that  gay  justice  of  1832,  which 
declared  that,  in  protesting  against  the  want  of  faith  of 
their  conquerors,  the  Poles  had  broken  faith.  The 
Austrian  government  had  sympathized  with  the  discon- 
tent of  those  Poles  who  had  fallen  under  Russian  sway, 
while  in  Breslau  it  was  permitted  to  print  and  ]3ublish 
plain  words  deemed  criminal  in  Cracow  and  Warsaw. 
The  dogs,  in  a  word,  behaved  as  dogs  do  over  their  car- 
rion, and,  having  secured  a  large  portion,  kept  a  jealous 
eye  on  their  neighbor's  jaw. 

The  Bukatys  had  lost  all  in  Poland  except  a  house  or 
two  in  Warsaw,  but  a  few  square  miles  of  fertile  land 
in  Galicia  brought  in  a  sufficiency,  while  Wanda  had 
some  property  in  the  neighborhood  of  Breslau  be- 
queathed to  her  by  her  mother.  The  grim  years  of  1860 
and  1861  had  worn  out  this  lady,  who  found  the  peace 
that  passeth  man's  understanding  while  Poland  was  yet 
in  the  horrors  of  a  hopeless  guerilla  warfare. 

84 


A    WARNING 

"  Russia  owes  me  twenty  years  of  Happiness  and 
twenty  million  rii])les,"  the  old  prince  was  in  the  habit 
of  saying,  and  each  year  on  the  anniversary  of  his  wife's 
death  he  reckoned  up  afresh  this  debt.  He  mentioned 
it,  moreover,  to  Russian  and  Pole  alike,  with  that  calm 
frankness  which  was  somehow  misunderstood,  for  the 
administration  never  placed  him  among  the  suspects. 
Poland  has  always  been  a  plain-speaking  country,  and 
the  Poles,  expressing  themselves  in  the  roughest  of  Eu- 
ropean tongues,  a  plain-spoken  people.  They  spoke  so 
plainly  to  Henry  of  Valois  when  he  was  their  king 
that  one  fine  night  he  ran  away  to  mincing  Prance  and 
gentler  men.  When,  under  rough  John  Sobieski,  they 
spoke  with  their  enemy  in  the  gate  of  Vienna,  their 
meaning  was  quite  clear  to  the  Moslem  understanding. 

The  Prince  Bukaty  had  a  touch  of  that  rough  man- 
ner which  commands  respect  in  this  smooth  age,  and 
even  Russian  officials  adopted  a  conciliatory  attitude 
towards  this  man,  who  had  known  Poland  without  one 
of  their  kind  within  her  boundaries. 

"  You  cannot  expect  an  old  man  such  as  I  to  follow 
all  the  changes  of  your  petty  laws,  and  to  remember 
under  which  form  of  government  he  happens  to  be  liv- 
ing at  the  moment!"  he  had  boldly  said  to  a  great  per- 
sonage from  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  observation  was 
duly  reported  in  the  capital.  It  was,  moreover,  said  in 
Warsaw  that  the  law  had  actually  stretched  a  point  or 
two  for  the  Prince  Bukaty  on  more  than  one  occasion. 
Like  many  outspoken  people,  he  passed  for  a  barker 
and  not  a  biter. 

It  does  not  fall  to  the  lot  of  many  to  live  in  a  highly 
civilized  town  and  submit  to  open  robbery.  Prince 
Bukaty  lived  in  a  small  palace  in  the  Kotzebue  Street, 
and  when  he  took  his  morning  stroll  in  the  Cracow  Fau- 

85 


THE     VULTURES 

bourg  he  passed  under  the  shadow  o£  a  palace  flying  the 
Russian  flag,  which  palace  was  his,  and  had  belonged 
to  his  ancestors  from  time  immemorial.  He  had  once 
made  the  journey  to  St.  Petersburg  to  see  in  the  great 
museum  there  the  portraits  of  his  fathers,  the  books 
that  his  predecessors  had  collected,  the  relics  of  Po- 
land's greatness,  which  were  his,  and  the  greatness 
thereof  was  his. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  to  the  loquacious  curator,  "  I 
know.  You  tell  me  nothing  that  I  do  not  know.  These 
things  are  mine.    I  am  the  Prince  Bukaty !" 

And  the  curator  of  St.  Petersburg  went  away,  sorrow- 
ful, like  the  young  man  who  had  great  possessions. 

For  Russia  had  taken  these  things  from  the  Bukatys, 
not  in  punishment,  but  because  she  wanted  them.  She 
wanted  offices  for  her  bureaucrats  on  the  Krakowski 
Przedmiescie,  in  Warsaw,  so  she  took  the  Bukaty  Pal- 
ace.   And  to  whom  can  one  appeal  when  Csesar  steals  ? 

Poland  had  appealed  to  Europe,  and  Europe  had  ex- 
pressed the  deepest  sympathy.    And  that  was  all ! 

The  house  in  the  Kotzebue  has  the  air  of  an  old 
French  town-house,  and  was,  in  fact,  built  by  a  French 
architect  in  the  days  of  Stanislaus  Augustus,  when  War- 
saw aped  Paris.  It  stands  back  from  the  road  behind 
high  railings,  and,  at  the  farther  end  of  a  paved  court- 
yard, to  which  entrance  is  gained  by  two  high  gates, 
now  never  opened  in  hospitality,  and  only  unlocked  at 
rare  intervals  for  the  passage  of  the  quiet  brougham 
in  which  the  prince  or  Wanda  went  and  came.  The 
house  is  just  round  the  corner  of  the  Kotzebue,  and 
therefore  faces  the  Saski  Gardens — a  quiet  spot  in  this 
most  noisy  town.  The  building  is  a  low  one,  with  a 
tiled  roof  and  long  windows,  heavily  framed,  of  which 
the  smaller  panes  and  thick  woodwork  suggest  the  early 

86 


A    WAKNING 

days  of  window-glass.  Inside,  the  house  is  the  house  of 
a  poor  man.  The  carpets  are  worn  thin  ;  the  furniture, 
of  a  sumptuous  design,  is  earefulij  patched  and  mended. 
The  atmosphere  has  that  mournful  scent  of  ancient 
tapestries  which  is  the  scent  of  better  days — now  dead 
and  past.  It  is  the  odor  of  monarchy,  slowly  fading 
from  the  face  of  a  world  that  reeks  of  cheap  democ- 
racy. 

The  air  of  the  rooms — the  subtle  individuality  which 
is  impressed  by  humanity  on  wood  and  texture — sug- 
gested that  older  comfort  which  has  been  succeeded  bv 
the  restless  luxury  of  these  times. 

The  prince  was,  it  appeared,  one  of  those  men  who 
diffuse  tranquillity  wherever  they  are.  He  had  moved 
quietly  through  stirring  events ;  had  acted  without  haste 
in  hurried  moments.  For  the  individuality  of  the  house 
must  have  been  his.  Wanda  had  found  it  there  when 
she  came  back  from  the  school  in  Dresden,  too  young  to 
have  a  marked  individuality  of  her  own.  The  difference 
she  brought  to  the  house  was  a  certain  brightness  and 
a  sort  of  experimental  femininity,  which  reigned  su- 
preme until  her  English  governess  came  back  again  to 
live  as  a  companion  with  her  pupil.  Wanda  moved  the 
furniture,  turned  the  house  round  on  its  staid  basis, 
and  made  a  hundred  experiments  in  domestic  economy 
before  she  gave  way  to  her  father's  habits  of  life.  Then 
she  made  that  happiest  of  human  discoveries,  wliich 
has  the  magic  power  of  allaying  at  one  stroke  the  eternal 
feminine  discontent  which  has  made  the  world  uneasy 
since  the  day  that  Eve  idled  in  that  perfect  garden — 
she  found  that  she  was  wanted  in  the  world ! 

The  prince  did  not  tell  her  so.  Perhaps  his  need  of 
her  was  too  obvious  to  require  words.  He  had  given  his 
best  years  to  Poland,  and  now  that  old  age  was  coming, 

87 


THE    VULTURES 

that  hGalth  was  failing  and  wealth  had  vanished,  Poland 
would  have  none  of  him. 

There  was  no  Poland.  At  this  moment  Wanda  burst 
upon  him,  so  to  speak,  with  a  hundred  desires  that 
only  he  could  fulfil,  a  hundred  questions  that  only  he 
could  answer.  And,  as  wise  persons  know,  to  fulfil 
desires  and  answer  questions  is  the  best  happiness. 

Father  and  daughter  lived  a  quiet  life  in  the  house 
that  was  called  a  palace  by  courtesy  only.  For  Martin 
was  made  of  livelier  stuff,  and  rarely  stayed  long  at 
home.  He  came  and  went  with  a  feverish  haste;  was 
fond  of  travel,  he  said,  and  the  authorities  kept  a  ques- 
tioning eye  upon  his  movements. 

There  are  two  doors  to  the  Bukaty  Palace.  As  often 
as  not,  Martin  made  use  of  the  smaller  door  giving 
entrance  to  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  which 
garden  could  also  be  entered  from  an  alley  leading 
round  from  the  back  of  the  bank,  which  stands  op- 
posite the  post-office  in  the  busier  part  of  Kotzebue 
Street. 

He  came  in  by  this  door  one  evening  and  did  not 
come  alone,  for  he  was  accompanied  by  a  man  in  work- 
ing-clothes. The  streets  of  Warsaw  are  well  lighted 
and  well  guarded  by  a  most  excellent  police,  second  only 
as  the  Russians  are  to  the  police  of  London.  It  is  there- 
fore the  custom  to  go  abroad  at  night  as  much  as  in  the 
day,  and  the  Krakowski  is  more  crowded  after  dark 
than  during  the  afternoon.  Kosmaroff  had  walked  some 
distance  behind  Prince  Martin  in  the  streets.  Martin 
unlocked  the  gate  of  the  garden  and  passed  in,  leaving 
the  gate  open  with  the  key  in  the  lock.  In  a  minute 
Kosmaroff  followed,  locked  the  gate  after  him,  and  gave 
the  key  back  to  its  owner  on  the  steps  of  the  garden 
door  of  the  house,  where  Martin  was  awaiting  him, 

88 


A    WAKNING 

latch-key  in  hand.  They  did  it  without  comment  or 
instruction,  as  men  carry  out  a  plan  frequently  resort- 
ed to. 

Martin  led  the  way  into  the  house,  along  a  dimly 
lighted  corridor,  to  a  door  which  stood  ajar.  Outside 
the  night  was  cold;  within  were  warmth  and  comfort. 
Martin  went  into  the  long  room.  At  the  far  end,  be- 
neath the  lamp  and  near  an  open  wood  fire,  the  prince 
and  Wanda  were  sitting.  They  were  in  evening  dress, 
and  the  prince  was  dozing  in  his  chair. 

"  I  have  brought  Kos  to  see  you,"  said  Martin,  and, 
turning,  he  looked  towards  the  door.  The  convict's  son, 
the  convict,  came  forward  with  that  ease  which,  to  be 
genuine,  must  be  quite  unconscious.  He  apparently 
gave  no  thought  to  his  sandy  and  wrinkled  top-boots, 
from  which  the  original  black  had  long  since  been 
washed  away  by  the  waters  of  the  Vistula.  He  wore 
his  working-clothes  as  if  they  were  the  best  habit  for 
this  or  any  other  palace.  He  took  Wanda's  hand  and 
kissed  it  in  the  old-world  fashion,  which  has  survived 
to  this  day  in  Poland.  But  the  careless  manner  in 
which  he  raised  her  fingers  to  his  lips  would  have 
showed  quite  clearly  to  a  competent  observer  that  nei- 
ther Wanda  nor  any  other  woman  had  ever  touched 
his  heart. 

"  You  will  excuse  my  getting  up,"  said  the  prince. 
"  My  gout  is  bad  to-night.  You  will  have  something  to 
eat?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  have  eaten,"  replied  Kosmaroff,  draw- 
ing forward  a  chair. 

Martin  put  the  logs  together  with  his  foot,  and  they 
blazed  up,  lighting  with  a  flickering  glow  the  incon- 
gruous group. 

"  He  will  take  a  glass  of  port,"  said  the  prince,  turn- 

89 


THE     VULTUKES 

ing  to  Wanda,  and  indicating  the  decanter  from  which, 
despite  his  gout,  he  had  just  had  his  after  -  dinner 
wine. 

Wanda  poured  out  the  wine  and  handed  it  to  Kos- 
maroff,  who  took  it  with  a  glance  and  a  quick  smile  of 
thanks,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  almost  one 
of  the  family.  And,  indeed,  they  were  closely  related, 
not  only  in  the  present  generation,  but  in  bygone  days. 
For  Kosmaroff  represented  a  family  long  since  deemed 
extinct. 

"  I. have  come,"  he  said,  "  to  tell  you  that  all  is  safe. 
Also  to  bid  you  good-bye.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  employ- 
ment I  shall  go  down  to  Thorn  to  stir  them  up  there. 
They  are  lethargic  at  Thorn." 

"  Ah !"  laughed  the  prince,  moving  his  legs  to  a  more 
comfortable  position,  "  you  young  men !  You  think 
everybody  is  lethargic.  Don't  move  too  quickly.  That 
is  what  I  always  preach." 

"  And  we  are  ready  enough  to  listen  to  your  preach- 
ing," answered  Kosmaroff.  "  You  will  admit  that. 
I  came  here  to-night  in  obedience  to  your  opinion  that 
too  much  secrecy  is  dangerous  because  it  leads  to  mis- 
understandings. Plain  speaking  and  clear  understand- 
ing was  the  message  you  sent  me — the  text  of  your  last 
sermon." 

With  his  quick  smile  Kosmaroff  touched  the  rim  of 
the  prince's  wineglass,  which  stood  at  his  elbow,  and 
indicated  by  a  gesture  that  he  drank  his  health. 

"  That  was  not  my  text — that  was  Wanda's,"  an- 
swered the  prince. 

"  Ah !"  said  Kosmaroff,  looking  towards  Wanda. 
"  Is  that  so  ?  Then  I  will  take  it.  I  believe  in  Wan- 
da's views  of  life.     She  has  a  vast  experience." 

"  I  have  been  to  Dresden  and  to  London,"  answered 

90 


A    WARNING 

Wanda,  "  and  a  woman  always  sees  much  more  than  a 


man." 


"  Always  ?"  asked  Kosmaroff,  with  his  one  -  sided 
smile. 

"  Always." 

But  Kosmaroff  had  turned  towards  the  prince  in  his 
quick,  jerky  way. 

"  By-the-way,"  he  asked,  "  what  is  Cartoner  doing 
in  Warsaw  ?" 

"  Cartoner — the  Englishman  who  speaks  so  many 
languages?  We  met  him  in  London,"  answered  the 
prince.     "  Who  is  he  ?    Why  should  he  not  be  here  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  who  he  is,"  answered  Kosmaroff, 
with  a  sudden  light  in  his  eyes.  "  He  is  the  man  that 
the  English  send  when  they  suspect  that  something  is 
going  on  which  they  can  turn  to  good  account.  He  has 
a  trick  of  finding  things  out — that  man.  Such  is  his 
reputation,  at  all  events.  Paul  Deulin  is  another,  and 
he  is  here.  He  is  a  friend  of  yours,  by-the-way ;  but  he 
is  not  dangerous,  like  Cartoner.  There  is  an  American 
here,  too.  His  instructions  are  Warsaw  and  Peters- 
burg. There  is  either  something  moving  in  Russia  or 
else  the  powers  suspect  that  something  may  move  in 
Poland  before  long.  These  men  are  here  to  find  out. 
They  must  find  out  nothing  from  us." 

The  prince  shrugged  his  shoulders  indifferently.  He 
did  not  attach  much  importance  to  these  foreigners. 

"  Of  course,"  went  on  Kosmaroff,  "  they  are  only 
watchers.  But,  as  Wanda  says,  some  people  see  more 
than  others.  The  American,  Mangles,  who  has  ladies 
with  him,  will  report  upon  events  after  they  have  hap- 
pened. So  will  Deulin,  who  is  an  idler.  He  never  sees 
that  which  will  give  him  trouble.  He  does  not  write 
long  despatches  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  because  he  knows 

91 


THE     VULTUEES 

that  they  will  not  be  read  there.  But  Cartoner  is  dif- 
ferent. There  are  never  any  surprises  for  the  English 
in  matters  that  Cartoner  has  in  hand.  He  reports  on 
events  before  they  have  happened,  which  is  a  different 
story.    I  merely  warn  you." 

As  he  spoke,  Kosmaroff  rose,  glancing  at  the  clock. 

"  There  are  no  instructions  ?" 

"  None,"  answered  the  prince.  "  Except  the  usual 
one — patience !" 

"  Ah  yes,"  replied  Kosmaroff,  "  we  shall  be  patient." 

He  did  not  seem  to  think  that  it  might  be  easier  to 
be  patient  in  this  comfortable  house  than  on  the  sand- 
hills of  the  Vistula  in  the  coming  winter  months. 

"  But  be  careful,"  he  added,  addressing  Martin  more 
particularly,  "  of  this  man  Cartoner.  He  will  not  be- 
tray, but  he  will  know — you  understand.  And  no  one 
must  know !" 

He  shook  hands  with  Martin  and  Wanda  and  then 
with  the  prince. 

"  You  met  him  in  London,  you  say  ?"  he  said  to  the 
prince.    "  What  did  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"  I  thought  him — a  quiet  man." 

"  And  Wanda  ?"  continued  Kosmaroff,  lightly,  turn- 
ing to  her — "  she  who  sees  so  much.  What  did  she 
think  of  him  ?" 

"  I  was  afraid  of  him !" 


XI 

AN  AGREEMENT— TO  DIFFER 

JWE  Saxon  Gardens  are  in  the  heart  of 
Warsaw,  and,  in  London,  would  be 
called  a  park.  At  certain  lionrs  the 
fashionable  world  promenades  beneath 
the  trees,  and  at  all  times  there  is  a 
thoroughfare  across  from  one  quarter 
of  the  town  to  another. 

Wanda  often  sat  here  in  the  morning  or  walked  slow- 
ly with  her  father  at  such  times  as  the  doctor's  instruc- 
tions to  take  exercise  were  still  fresh  upon  his  memory. 
There  are  seats  beneath  the  trees,  overlooking  the  green 
turf  and  the  flowers  so  dear  to  the  Slavonian  soul. 
Later  in  the  morning  these  seats  are  occupied  by  nurses 
and  children,  as  in  any  other  park  in  any  other  city. 
But  from  nine  to  ten  Wanda  had  the  alleys  mostly  to 
herself. 

The  early  autumn  had  already  laid  its  touch  upon 
the  trees,  and  the  leaves  were  brown.  The  flowers,  labo- 
riously tended  all  through  the  brief,  uncertain  summer, 
had  that  forlorn  look  which  makes  autumn  in  N"orthern 
latitudes  a  period  of  damp  depression.  Wanda  had 
gone  out  early,  and  was  sitting  at  the  sunny  side  of  the 
broad  alley  that  divides  the  gardens  in  two  from  end 
to  end.  She  was  waiting  for  Martin,  who  had  been 
called  back  at  the  door  of  the  palace  and  had  promised 

93 


THE     VULTUEES 

to  follow  in  a  few  minutes.  He  had  a  hundred  engage- 
ments during  the  day,  a  hundred  friends  among  those 
unfortunate  scions  of  noble  houses  who  will  not  wear 
the  Russian  uniform,  who  cannot  by  the  laws  of  their 
caste  engage  in  any  form  of  commerce,  and  must  not 
accept  a  government  office — who  are  therefore  idle, 
without  the  natural  Southern  sloth  that  enables  Ital- 
ians and  Spaniards  to  do  nothing  gracefully  all  day 
long.  Wanda  was  wiser  than  Martin.  Girls  generally 
are  infinitely  wiser  than  young  men.  But  the  wisdom 
ceases  to  grow  later  in  life,  and  old  men  are  wiser  than 
old  women.  Wanda  was,  in  a  sense,  Martin's  adviser, 
mentor,  and  friend.  She  had,  as  he  himself  acknowl- 
edged, already  saved  him  from  dangers  into  which  his 
natural  heedlessness  and  impetuosity  would  have  led 
him.  As  to  the  discontent  in  which  all  Poland  was 
steeped,  which  led  the  princes  and  their  friends  into 
many  perils,  Wanda  had  been  brought  up  to  it,  just 
as  some  families  are  brought  up  to  consumption  and 
the  anticipation  of  an  early  death. 

In  her  eminently  practical,  feminine  way  of  looking 
at  things,  Wanda  was  much  more  afraid  of  Martin 
running  into  debt  than  into  danger.  Debt  and  impe- 
cuniosity  would  be  so  inconvenient  at  this  time,  when 
her  father  daily  needed  some  new  comfort,  and  daily 
depended  for  his  happiness  more  and  more  upon  his 
port  wine  and  that  ease  which  is  only  to  be  enjoyed  by 
an  easy  mind. 

Wanda  was  thinking  of  these  things  in  the  Saski 
Gardens,  and  hardly  heeded  the  passers-by,  though — for 
the  feminine  instincts  were  strong  in  her — she  looked 
with  softer  eyes  on  the  children  than  she  did  on  the 
Jew  who  hurried  past,  with  bent  back  and  a  bowed  head, 
from  the  richer  quarter  of  the  town  to  his  own  mys- 

94 


A^     AGEEEMENT  —  TO    DIFFER 

terioiis  purlieus  of  the  Franoiszkanska.  The  latter, 
perhaps,  recalled  the  thoughts  of  Martin  and  his  heed- 
lessness; the  former  made  her  think  of — she  knew  not 
what. 

She  was  looking  towards  the  colonnade  that  marks 
the  site  of  the  King  of  Saxony's  palace,  when  Cartoner 
came  through  the  archway  into  the  garden.  She  recog- 
nized him  even  at  this  distance,  for  his  walk  was  unlike 
that  of  the  nervous,  quick-moving  Pole  or  the  lurking 
Jew.  It  was  more  like  the  gait  of  a  Russian;  but  all 
the  Russians  in  Warsaw  wear  a  uniform.  That  is  why 
they  are  there.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  determina- 
tion in  the  walk  of  this  Englishman. 

He  came  down  tlie  wide  alley  towards  her,  and  then 
suddenly  perceived  her.  She  saw  this  without  actually 
looking  at  him,  and  knew  the  precise  moment  when  he 
first  caught  sight  of  her.  It  was  presumably  upon  ex- 
perience that  Wanda  based  her  theory  that  women  see 
twice  as  much  as  men.  She  saw  him  turn,  without 
hesitation,  away  from  her  down  a  narrower  alley  lead- 
ing to  the  right.  It  was  his  intention  to  avoid  her.  But 
the  only  turning  he  could  take  was  that  leading  to  the 
corner  of  Kotzebue  Street,  and  Martin  was  at  the  other 
end  of  it,  coming  towards  him.  Cartoner  was  thus 
caught  in  the  narrow  alley.  Wanda  sat  still  and 
watched  the  two  men.  She  suddenly  knew  in  advance 
what  would  happen,  as  it  is  often  vouchsafed  to  the 
human  understanding  to  know  at  a  moment's  notice 
what  is  coming;  and  she  had  a  strange,  discomforting 
sense  that  these  minutes  were  preordained — that  Martin 
and  Cartoner  and  herself  were  mere  puppets  in  the 
hands  of  Fate,  and  must  say  and  do  that  which  had  been 
assigned  to  them  in  an  unalterable  scheme  of  succeed- 
ing events. 

95 


THE    VULTUEES 

She  watched  the  two  men  meet  and  shake  hands, 
in  the  English  fashion,  without  raising  their  hats.  She 
could  see  Cartoner's  movement  to  continue  his  way, 
and  Martin's  detaining  hand  slipped  within  the  Eng- 
lishman's arm. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?"  Martin  was  saying.  "  There 
is  no  one  to  see  us  here,  at  this  hour  in  the  morning. 
We  are  quite  safe.  There  is  Wanda,  sitting  on  the 
seat,  waiting  for  me.    Come  back  with  me." 

And  Wanda  could  divine  the  words  easily  enough 
from  her  brother's  attitude  and  gestures.  It  ought  to 
have  surprised  her  that  Cartoner  yielded,  for  it  was 
unlike  him.  He  was  so  much  stronger  than  Martin — 
so  determined,  so  unyielding.  And  yet  she  felt  no 
surprise  when  he  turned  and  came  towards  her  with 
Martin's  hand  still  within  his  arm.  She  knew  that  it 
was  written  that  he  must  come ;  divined  vaguely  that 
he  had  something  to  say  to  her  which  it  was  safer  to 
say  than  to  leave  to  be  silently  understood  and  perhaps 
misunderstood.  She  gave  an  impatient  sigh.  She  had 
always  ruled  her  father  and  brother  and  the  Palace 
Bukaty,  and  this  sense  of  powerlessness  was  new  to 
her. 

While  they  approached,  Martin  continued  to  talk  in 
his  eager,  laughing  way,  and  Cartoner  smiled  slowly 
as  he  listened. 

"  I  saw  you,"  he  said  to  Wanda,  as  he  took  off  his 
hat,  "  and  went  the  other  way  to  avoid  you." 

And,  having  made  this  plain  statement,  he  stood 
silently  looking  at  her.  He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and 
she  met  his  odd,  direct  gaze  without  embarrassment. 

"  Cartoner  and  I,"  Prince  Martin  hastened  to  ex- 
plain, "  travelled  from  Berlin  together,  and  we  agreed 
then  that,  much  as  we  might  desire  it,  it  would  be  in- 

96 


AN    AGKEEMENT  — TO    DIFFER 

convenient  for  me  to  show  him  that  attention  which 
one  would  naturally  wish  to  show  to  an  Englishman 
travelling  in  Poland.  That  is  why  he  went  the  other 
way  when  he  saw  you." 

Wanda  looked  at  Cartoner  with  her  quick,  shrewd 
smile.  It  would  have  been  the  obvious  thing  to  have 
confirmed  this  explanation.  But  Cartoner  kept  silent. 
He  had  acquired,  it  seemed,  the  fatal  habit — very  rare 
among  men  and  almost  unknown  in  women — of  think- 
ing before  he  spoke.  Which  habit  is  deadly  for  that 
which  is  called  conversation,  because  if  one  decides  not 
to  give  speech  to  the  obvious  and  the  unnecessary  and 
the  futile  there  is  in  daily  intercourse  hardly  anything 
left. 

"  You  see,"  said  Martin,  who  always  had  plenty  to 
say  for  himself,  "  in  this  province  of  Russia  we  are  not 
even  allowed  to  choose  our  own  friends." 

"  Even  in  a  free  country  one  does  not  pick  one's 
friends  out,  like  the  best  strawberries  from  a  basket," 
said  Wand; 

"  iNTot  a  question  to  be  arranged  beforehand,"  put  in 
Cartoner. 

"  Not  even  by  the  governor-general  of  Poland  ?" 
asked  Wanda,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  falling  leaves 
which  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  had  showered  round  them. 

"  'Not  even  by  the  Czar." 

"  Who,  I  am  told,  means  well !"  said  Martin,  iron- 
ically, and  with  a  gay  laugh,  for  irony  and  laughter 
may  be  assimilated  by  the  young.  "  Poor  man !  It 
must  be  terrible  to  know  that  people  are  saying  behind 
one's  back  that  one  means  well!  I  hope  no  one  will 
ever  say  that  of  me.'^ 

Wanda  had  sat  down  again,   and  was  stirring  the 
dead  leaves  with  her  walking-stick. 
'  97. 


THE     VULTUEES 


cc 


Martin  and  I  are  going  for  a  tramp,"  she  said. 
"  We  like  to  get  away  from  the  noise  and  the  dust — 
and  the  uniforms." 

But  Martin  sat  down  beside  her  and  made  room  for 
Cartoner. 

"  We  attract  less  attention  than  if  we  stand,"  he  ex- 
plained. And  Cartoner  took  the  seat  offered.  "  Such 
hospitality  as  our  circumstances  allow  us  to  offer  you," 
commented  the  young  prince,  gayly,  "  a  clean  stone  seat 
on  the  sunny  side  of  a  public  garden." 

"  But  let  us  understand  each  other,"  put  in  Wanda, 
in  her  practical  way,  and  looked  from  one  man  to  the 
other  with  those  gay,  blue  eyes  that  saw  so  much, 
"  since  we  are  conspirators." 

"  The  better  we  understand  each  other  the  better 
conspirators  we  shall  be,"  said  Cartoner. 

"  I  notice  you  don't  ask,  '  What  is  the  plot  V  "  said 
Wanda. 

"  The  plot  is  simple  enough,"  answered  Martin,  for 
Cartoner  said  nothing,  and  looked  straight  in  front  of 
him.  He  did  not  address  one  more  than  the  other,  but 
explained  the  situation,  as  it  were,  for  the  benefit  of 
all  whom  it  might  concern.  He  had  lighted  a  cigarette 
— a  little  Russian  affair,  all  gold  lettering  and  mouth- 
piece, and  as  he  spoke  he  jerked  the  ash  from  time  to 
time  so  that  it  should  not  fly  and  incommode  his  sister. 

"  Rightly  or  wrongly,  we  are  suspected  of  being  mal- 
contents. The  Bukatys  have  in  the  past  been  known 
to  foster  that  spirit  of  Polish  nationality  which  it  has 
been  the  endeavor  of  three  great  countries  to  suppress 
for  nearly  a  century.  Despite  Russia,  Prussia,  and 
Austria  there  is  still  a  Polish  language  and  a  Polish 
spirit;  despite  the  Romanoffs,  the  Hapsburgs,  and  the 
Hohenzollerns  there   are   still   a  few  old   Lithuanian 

98 


AN     AGREEMENT  — TO     DIFFER 

and  Ruthenian  families  extant.  And  rightly  or  wrong- 
ly, those  in  authority  are  kind  enough  to  blame,  among 
others,  the  Bukatys  for  these  survivals.  Weeds,  it 
seems,  are  hard  to  kill.  Whether  we  are  really  to  blame 
or  not  is  of  no  consequence.  It  does  not  matter  to  the 
dosr  whether  he  deserves  his  bad  name  or  not — after  he 
is  hanged.  But  it  is  not  good  to  be  a  Bukaty  and  live  in 
Poland  just  now,  though  some  of  us  manage  to  have 
a  good  time  despite  them  all — eh,  Wanda  V 

And  he  laid  his  hand  momentarily  on  his  sister's 
arm.  But  she  did  not  answer.  She  desired  before  all 
things  that  clear  understanding  which  was  part  of  her 
creed  of  life,  and  she  glanced  quickly  from  side  to  side 
for  fear  some  interruption  should  approach. 

"  Mr.  Cartoner,  on  the  other  hand,"  he  continued,  in 
his  airy  way,  "  is  a  most  respectable  man — in  the  em- 
ploy of  his  country.  That  is  what  damns  Mr.  Cartoner. 
He  is  in  the  employ  of  his  country.  And  he  has  a  great 
reputation,  to  which  I  take  off  my  hat." 

And  he  saluted  gayly  Cartoner's  reputation. 

"  It  would  never  do,"  continued  Martin,  "  for  us,  the 
suspects,  to  be  avowedly  the  friend  of  the  man  who  is 
understood  to  be  an  envoy  in  some  capacity  of  his  gov- 
ernment. Whether  he  is  really  such  or  not  is  of  no 
consequence.  It  matters  little  to  the  dog,  you  remem- 
ber." 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?"  asked  Wanda,  practically. 
"  Let  us  have  a  clear  understanding.  Are  we  to  pass 
each  other  in  the  streets  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Cartoner,  speaking  at  length,  with- 
out hesitation  and  without  haste — a  man  who  knew  his 
own  mind,  and  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  ques- 
tion.   "  We  must  not  meet  in  the  streets." 

"  That  may  not  be  so  easy  as  it  sounds,"  said  Wanda, 

99 


THE     VULTURES 

"  in  a  small  city  like  Warsaw.    Are  jou  so  long-sighted 
that  you  can  always  make  sure  of  avoiding  us  ?" 

"  I  can,  at  all  events,  try,"  answered  Cartoner,  simply. 
After  a  pause  (the  pauses  always  occurred  when  it  hap- 
pened, so  to  say,  to  be  Cartoner's  turn  to  speak)  he  rose 
from  the  stone  seat,  which  was  all  that  the  Bukatys 
could  offer  him  in  Warsaw.  "  I  can  begin  at  once,"  he 
said,  gravely.    And  he  took  off  his  hat  and  went  away. 

It  was  done  so  quickly  and  quietly  that  Wanda  and 
Martin  were  left  in  silence  on  the  seat,  watching  him 
depart.  He  went  the  way  he  had  come,  down  the  broad 
walk  towards  the  colonnade,  and  disappeared  between 
the  pillars  of  that  building. 

"  A  man  of  action,  and  not  of  words,"  commented 
Martin,  who  spoke  first.  "  I  like  him.  Come,  let  us 
go  for  our  walk." 

And  Wanda  said  nothing.  They  rose  and  went  away 
without  speaking,  though  they  usually  had  plenty  to 
say  to  each  other.  It  almost  seemed  that  Cartoner's 
silence  was  contagious. 

He,  for  his  part,  went  into  the  Faubourg  and  crossed 
to  the  river  side  of  that  wide  street.  It  thus  happened 
that  he  missed  seeing  Mr.  Joseph  Mangles,  sunning  him- 
self upon  the  more  frequented  pavement,  and  smoking 
a  contemplative  cigar.  Mr.  Mangles  would  have  stopped 
him  had  they  met.  Paul  Deulin  was  not  far  behind 
Mr.  Mangles,  idling  past  the  shops,  which  could  scarce- 
ly have  had  much  interest  for  the  Parisian. 

"  Ah !"  said  the  Frenchman  to  himself,  "  there  is  our 
friend  Reginald.  He  is  in  one  of  his  silent  humors. 
I  can  see  that  from  this  distance." 

He  turned  on  the  pavement  and  watched  Cartoner, 
who  was  walking  rather  slowly. 

"  If  any  woman  ever  marries  that  man,"  the  French- 

100 


AN     AGKEEMENT  — TO     DIFFER 

man  said  to  himself,  "  she  will  have  to  allow  a  great 
deal  to  go  without  saying.  But,  then,  women  are  good 
at  that." 

And  he  continued  his  leisurely  contemplation  of  the 
dull  shop-windows. 

Cartoner  walked  on  to  his  rooms  in  the  Jasna,  where 
he  found  letters  awaiting  him.  He  read  them,  and 
then  sat  down  to  write  one  which  was  not  an  answer  to 
any  that  he  had  received.  He  wrote  it  carefully  and 
thoughtfully,  and  when  it  was  written  sealed  it.  For 
in  Warsaw  it  is  well  to  seal  such  letters  as  are  not  in- 
tended to  be  read  at  the  post-office.  And  if  one  expects 
letters  of  importance,  it  is  wiser  not  to  have  them  sent 
to  Poland  at  all,  for  the  post-office  authorities  are  kind 
enough  to  exercise  a  parental  censorship  over  the  trav- 
ellers' correspondence. 

Cartoner's  letter  was  addressed  to  an  English  gentle- 
man at  his  country  house  in  Sussex,  and  it  asked  for 
an  immediate  recall  from  Poland.  It  was  a  confession, 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  mission  entrusted  to  him 
was  more  than  he  could  undertake. 


XII 

CAETONER  VERSUS  FATE 

|T  has  been  said  that  on  the  turf,  and 
under  it,  all  men  are  equal.  It  is,  more- 
over, whispered  that  the  crooked  policy 
of  Russia  forwards  the  cause  of  horse- 
racing  at  Warsaw  by  every  means  within 
its  power,  on  the  theory  that  even  war- 
ring nationalities  may  find  themselves  reconciled  by  a 
common  sport.  And  this  dream  of  peace,  pursued  by 
the  successor  of  that  Czar  who  said  to  Poland :  "  Gentle- 
men— no  dreams,"  seems  in  part  justified  by  the  un- 
deniable fact  that  Russians  and  Poles  find  themselves 
brought  nearer  together  on  the  race-course  than  in  any 
other  social  function  in  Warsaw. 

"  Come,"  cried  Paul  Deulin,  breaking  in  on  the  soli- 
tude of  Cartoner's  rooms  after  lunch  one  day  towards 
the  end  of  October.  "  Come,  and  let  us  bury  the 
hatchet,  and  smoke  the  cigarette  of  peace  before  the 
grand-stand  at  the  Mokotow.  Everybody  will  be  there. 
All  Poland  and  his  wife,  all  the  authorities  and  their 
wives,  and  these  ladies  will  peep  sideways  at  each  other, 
and  turn  up  their  noses  at  each  other's  toilets.  To  such 
has  descended  the  great  strife  in  eastern  Europe." 
"  You  think  so." 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  or  I  pretend  to  think  so,  which 
comes  to  the  same  thing,  and  makes  it  a  more  amusing 

102 


CAETONER     VERSUS    FATE 

world  for  those  who  have  no  stake  in  it.  Come  with  me, 
and  I  will  show  jou  this  little  world  of  Warsaw,  where 
the  Russians  walk  on  one  side  and  the  Poles  pass  by  on 
the  other ;  where  these  fine  Russian  officers  glance  long- 
ingly across  the  way,  only  too  ready  to  take  their  hearts 
there  and  lose  them — but  the  Czar  forbids  it.  And,  let 
me  tell  you,  there  is  nothing  more  dangerous  in  the 
world  than  a  pair  of  Polish  eyes." 

He  broke  off  suddenly;  for  Cartoner  was  looking  at 
him  with  a  speculative  glance,  and  turned  away  to  the 
window. 

"  Come,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  fine  day — St.  Martin's 
summer.  It  is  Sunday,  but  no  matter.  All  you  Eng^ 
lishmen  think  that  there  is  no  recording  angel  on  the 
(,^ontinent.    You  leave  him  behind  at  Dover." 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  principles,"  said  Cartoner,  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  looking  round  absent-mindedly  for 
his  hat. 

"  You  would  be  no  friend  of  mine  if  you  had.  There 
is  no  moderation  in  principles.  If  a  man  has  any  at  all, 
he  always  has  some  to  spare  for  his  neighbors.  And 
who  wants  to  act  up  to  another  man's  principles  ?  By- 
the-way,  are  you  doing  any  good  here,  Cartoner  ?" 

"  None." 

"  'Nov  I,"  pursued  Deulin ;  "  and  I  am  bored.  That 
is  why  I  want  you  to  come  to  the  races  with  me.  Be- 
sides, it  would  be  more  marked  to  stay  away  than  to  go 
— especially  for  an  Englishman  and  a  Frenchman,  who 
lead  the  world  in  racing." 

"  That  is  why  I  am  going,"  said  Cartoner. 

"  Then  you  don't  like  racing  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  answered  the  English- 
man, in  the  same  absent  voice,  as  he  led  the  way  towards 
the  door. 

103 


THE    VULTURES 

In  the  Jasna  tKoy  found  a  drosky,  where  there  is  al- 
ways one  to  be  found  at  the  corner  of  the  square,  and 
they  did  not  speak  during  the  drive  up  the  broad  Mars- 
zalkowska  to  the  rather  barren  suburb  of  the  Mokotow 
(where  bricks  and  mortar  are  still  engaged  in  em- 
phasizing the  nakedness  of  the  land),  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  speech  is  impossible  while  driving  through  the 
streets  of  the  worst-paved  city  in  Europe.  Which  is  a 
grudge  that  the  traveller  may  bear  against  Russia,  for 
if  Poland  had  been  a  kingdom  she  would  assuredly  have 
paved  the  streets  of  her  capital. 

The  race-course  is  not  more  than  fifteen  minutes' 
drive  from  the  heart  of  the  town,  and  all  Warsaw  was 
going  thither  this  sunny  afternoon.  At  the  entrance  a 
crowd  was  slowly  working  its  way  through  the  turn- 
stiles, and  Deulin  and  Cartoner  passed  in  with  it.  They 
had  the  trick,  so  rare  among  travellers,  of  doing  this  in 
any  country  without  attracting  undue  attention. 

It  was  a  motley  enough  throng.  There  were  Polish 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  garb  of  their  caste,  which 
is  to-day  the  same  all  the  world  over,  though  in  some 
parts  of  Ruthcnia  and  Lithuania  one  may  still  come 
across  a  Polish  gentleman  of  the  old  school  in  his 
frogged  coat  and  top-boots.  German  tradesmen  and 
their  families  formed  here  and  there  one  of  those  do- 
mesticated and  homely  groups  which  the  Fatherland 
sends  out  into  the  world's  trading  centres.  And  moving 
amid  these,  as  quietly  and  unobtrusively  as  possible, 
the  Russian  officers,  who  virtually  had  the  management 
of  the  course — tall,  fair,  clean  men,  with  sunburned 
faces  and  white  skins — energetic,  refined,  and  strong. 
They  were  mostly  in  white  tunics  with  gold  shoulder- 
straps,  blue  breeches,  and  much  gold  lace.  Here  and 
there  a  Cossack  officer  moved  with  long,  free  strides  in 

104 


CARTOI^ER     VERSUS    FATE 

his  dressing-gown  of  a  coat,  heavily  ornamented  with 
silver,  carrying  high  his  astrakhan  cap,  and  looking 
round  him  with  dark  eyes  that  had  a  gleam  of  some- 
thing wild  and  untamed  in  them.  It  was  a  meeting- 
ground  of  many  races,  one  of  the  market-places  where 
men  may  greet  each  other  who  come  from  differ- 
ent hemispheres  and  yet  owe  allegiance  to  one  flag: 
are  sons  of  the  empire  which  to-day  gathers  within 
one  ring-fence  the  north,  the  south,  the  east,  and  the 
west. 

"  France  amuses  me,  England  commands  my  respect, 
but  Russia  takes  my  breath  away,"  said  Deulin,  elbow- 
ing his  way  through  the  medley  of  many  races.  On  all 
sides  one  heard  different  languages — German,  the  sing- 
song Russian — the  odd,  exclamatory  tongue  which  three 
emperors  cannot  kill. 

"  And  Germany  V  inquired  Cartoner,  in  his  low, 
curt  voice. 

"  Bores  me,  my  friend." 

He  was  pushing  his  way  gently  through  into  the  pad- 
dock, where  a  number  of  men  were  congregated,  but  no 
ladies. 

"  The  Fatherland,"  he  added,  "  the  heavy  Father- 
land !  I  killed  a  German  once,  Avhen  I  was  in  the  army 
of  the  Loire — a  most  painful  business." 

He  was  still  shaking  his  head  over  this  reminiscence 
when  they  reached  the  gateway  of  the  paddock.  He 
Avas  passing  through  it  when,  without  turning  towards 
him,  he  grasped  Cartoner's  arm. 

"Look!"  he  said,  "look!" 

There  was  a  sudden  commotion  in  the  well-dressed 
crowd  in  the  paddock,  and  above  the  gray  coats  and 
glossy  hats  the  tossing  colors  of  a  jockey.  The  head  of 
a  startled  horse  and  two  gleaming  shoes  appeared  above 

105 


THE     VULTURES 

the  heads  of  men  for  a  moment.     A  horse  had  broken 
away  with  its  jockey  only  half  in  the  saddle. 

The  throng  divided,  and  dispersed  in  either  direction 
like  sheep  before  a  dog — all  except  one  man,  who,  walk- 
ing with  two  sticks,  could  not  move  above  a  snail's 
pace. 

Then,  because  they  were  both  quick  men,  with  the 
instincts  and  a  long  practice  of  action  in  moments 
calling  for  a  rapid  decision,  Deulin  and  Cartoner  ran 
forward.  But  they  could  not  save  the  catastrophe 
which  they  knew  was  imminent.  The  horse  advanced 
with  long,  wild  strides,  and  knocked  the  crippled  old 
man  over  as  if  he  were  a  ninepin.  He  came  on  at  a 
gallop  now,  the  jockey  leaning  forward  and  trying  to 
catch  a  broken  bridle,  his  two  stirrups  flying,  his  cap  off. 
The  little  man  was  swearing  in  English.  And  he  had 
need  to,  for  through  the  paddock  gate  the  crowd  was 
densely  packed,  and  he  was  charging  into  it  on  a  mad- 
dened horse  beyond  control. 

Deulin  was  nearer,  and  therefore  the  first  to  get  to 
the  horse ;  but  Cartoner's  greater  weight  came  an  in- 
stant later,  and  the  horse's  head  was  down. 

"  Let  go !  let  go !"  cried  the  jockey  through  his  teeth, 
as  Cartoner  and  Deulin,  one  on  each  side,  crammed  the 
stirrups  over  his  feet.    "  Let  go !    I'll  teach  him  !" 

And  they  obeyed  him,  for  the  horse  interested  them 
less  than  the  Prince  Bukaty,  lying  half-stunned  on  the 
turf.  They  were  both  at  his  side  in  a  moment,  and  saw 
him  open  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  unhurt,"  he  said.  "  Help  me  up.  ISTo ! 
ah — h!  ISTo,  nothing  is  broken;  it  is  that  confounded 
gout.  ]^o,  I  cannot  rise  yet!  Leave  me  for  a  minute. 
Go,  one  of  you,  and  tell  Wanda  that  I  am  unhurt.  She 
is  in  box  ]!^o.  18,  in  the  grand-stand." 

106 


CARTON ER    VERSUS    FATE 

He  spoke  in  Erench,  to  Deuliii  more  particularly, 

"  Go  and  tell  her,"  said  the  Frenchman,  over  his 
shoulder,  in  English.  "  Some  busy  fool  has  probably 
started  off  by  this  time  to  tell  her  that  her  father  is 
killed.  You  will  find  us  in  the  club-house  when  you 
come  back." 

So  Cartoner  went  to  the  grand-stand  to  seek  Wanda 
there,  in  the  face  of  all  Warsaw,  with  his  promise  to 
avoid  her  still  fresh  in  his  memory.  As  he  approached 
he  saw  her  in  the  second  tier  of  boxes.  She  was  dressed 
in  black  and  white,  as  she  nearly  always  was.  It  was 
only  the  Russians  and  the  Germans  who  wore  gay  col- 
ors. He  could  see  the  surprise  on  her  face  and  in  Mar- 
tin's eyes  as  he  approached,  and  knew  that  there  were 
a  hundred  eyes  watching  him,  a  hundred  ears  waiting 
to  catch  his  words  when  he  spoke. 

"  Princess,"  he  said,  "  the  prince  has  had  a  slight 
accident,  and  has  sent  me  to  tell  you  that  he  is  unhurt, 
in  case  you  should  hear  any  report  to  the  contrary.  He 
was  unable  to  avoid  a  fractious  horse,  and  was  knocked 
down.  Mr.  Deulin  is  with  him,  and  they  have  gone  to 
the  club  pavilion." 

He  spoke  rather  slowly  in  Erench,  so  that  all  within 
ear-shot  could  understand  and  repeat. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  him  ?"  asked  Wanda,  rising. 

"  Only  to  satisfy  yourself.  I  assure  you  he  is  un- 
hurt, princess,  and  would  come  himself  were  he  able 
to  walk." 

Wanda  rose,  and  turned  to  take  her  cloak  from  the 
back  of  her  chair. 

"  Will  you  take  us  to  him,  monsieur  ?"  she  said. 

And  the  three  quitted  the  grand-stand  together  in  a 
rather  formal  silence.  The  next  race  was  about  to  start, 
and  the  lawn,  with  its  forlorn,  autumnal  flower-beds, 

107 


THE    VULTUKES 

was  less  crowded  now  as  they  walked  along  it  towards 
the  paddock. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  and  tell  us,"  said 
Martin,  in  English,  "  with  the  whole  populace  looking 
on.  It  will  do  you  no  good,  you  know,  to  do  a  kindness 
to  people  under  a  cloud.  I  suppose  it  was  true  what 
you  said  about  the  prince  being  unhurt  ?" 

"  Almost,"  answered  Cartoner.  "  He  is  rather  badly 
shaken.  I  think  you  will  find  it  necessary  to  go  home, 
but  there  is  no  need  for  anxiety." 

"  Oh  no !"  exclaimed  Martin.  "  He  is  a  tough  old 
fellow.  You  cannot  come  in  here,  you  know,  Wanda. 
It  is  against  the  Jockey  Club  laws,  even  in  case  of  acci- 
dents." 

He  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  club  enclosure  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Wait  here,"  he  said,  "  with  Cartoner,  and  I  will 
be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 

So  Cartoner  and  Wanda  were  left  in  the  now  de- 
serted paddock,  while  the  distant  roar  of  voices  an- 
nounced that  the  start  for  the  next  race  had  been  suc- 
cessfully accomplished. 

Wanda  looked  rather  anxiously  towards  the  little 
square  pavilion  into  which  lier  brother  was  hurrying, 
and  Cartoner  only  looked  at  Wanda.  He  waited  till 
she  should  speak,  and  she  did  not  appear  to  have  any- 
thing to  say  at  that  moment.  Perhaps  in  this  one  case 
that  clear  understanding  of  which  she  was  such  a 
pronounced  advocate  was  only  to  be  compassed  by 
silence,  and  not  by  speech.  The  roar  of  voices  behind 
them  came  nearer  and  nearer  as  the  horses  approached 
the  winning-post.  The  members  of  the  club  stood  rigid 
beneath  the  pavilion  awning,  some  with  field-glasses, 
others  with  knitted  brows  and  glittering  eyes.    All  eyes 

108 


CARTONER     VERSUS    FATE 

were  turned  in  the  one  direction,  except  Wanda's  and 
Cartoner's. 

Then,  when  the  race  was  over  and  the  roar  had  sub- 
sided, Martin  came  hurrying  back,  and  one  glance  at 
his  face  told  them  that  there  was  no  need  for  anxiety. 

"  He  is  laughing  in  there  over  a  glass  of  cognac.  He 
refuses  absolutely  to  go  home,  and  he  wants  me  to  help 
him  up  the  stairs.  He  will  sit  under  the  awning,  he 
says.  And  we  are  to  go  back  to  the  grand-stand,"  Martin 
said,  as  he  approached. 

"  See,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  paddock  where  the 
crowd  was  hurrying  to  gather  round  the  winning  horse. 
"  See,  it  is  already  a  thing  of  the  past.  And  he  wants 
it  to  be  so.  He  wants  no  fuss  made  about  it.  It  is  no 
good  advertising  the  fact  of  the  existence  of  a  dog  with 
a  bad  name,  eh  ?  Thank  you  all  the  same,  Cartoner, 
for  your  good  offices.  You  and  Deulin,  they  say,  averted 
a  catastrophe.  The  incident  is  over,  my  dear  Wanda. 
It  is  forgotten  by  all  except  us.  Wait  here  a  minute 
and  I  will  come  back  to  you." 

With  a  nod  to  Cartoner,  as  if  to  say,  "  I  leave  her  to 
your  care,"  he  turned  and  left  them  again. 

Then  at  length  Wanda  spoke. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  so  strong  as — " 

"  As  what  ?"  he  asked,  seeing  that  she  sought  a  word. 

"  As  fate,  I  suppose,"  she  answered,  and  her  eyes 
were  grave  as  she  looked  across  the  mournful  level  land 
towards  the  west,  where  the  sun  was  sinking  below 
parallel  bars  of  cloud  to  the  straight  line  of  the  horizon. 
Sunset  over  a  plain  is  one  of  nature's  tragic  moments. 

"  Is  it  Fate  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
manner. 

"  Even  Fate  can  be  hampered  in  its  movements,  prin- 
cess," answered  Cartoner. 

109 


THE     VULTURES 

"By  what?" 

"  Bj  action.     I  have  written  for  my  recall." 

He  was  looking  towards  the  pavilion.  It  seemed  that 
it  was  he,  and  not  his  companion,  who  was  now  anxious 
for  Martin  to  return.  Wanda  was  still  looking  across 
the  course  towards  the  sinking  sun. 

"  You  have  asked  to  be  recalled  from  Warsaw  ?"  she 
said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  it  would  have  been 
better  for  you  if  we  had  not  met  at  Lady  Orlay's,  in 
London.  Monsieur  Deulin  once  said  that  you  had 
never  had  a  check  in  your  career.  This  is  the  first 
check.     And  it  has  come  through — knowing  us." 

Cartoner  made  no  answer,  but  stood  watching  the 
door  of  the  pavilion  with  patient,  thoughtful  eyes. 

"  You  cannot  deny  it,"  she  said. 

And  he  did  not  deny  it. 

Then  she  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  with 
clever,  speculative  keenness. 

"  Why  have  you  asked  for  your  recall  ?"  she  asked, 
slowly. 

And  still  Cartoner  made  no  answer.  He  was  without 
rival  in  the  art  of  leaving  things  unsaid.  Then  Martin 
came  to  them,  laughing  and  talking.  And  across  the 
(!Ourse,  amid  the  tag-rag  and  bobtail  of  Warsaw,  the 
eyes  of  the  man  called  Kosmaroff  watched  their  every 
movement. 


XIII 

THE   WHEELS    OF    CHANCE 

'HEIST  Martin  and  Wanda  returned  to 
the  grand-stand  they  found  the  next 
box  to  theirs,  which  had  hitherto  been 
empty,  occupied  by  a  sedate  party  of 
foreigners.  Miss  Mangles  had  come  to 
the  races,  not  because  she  cared  for 
sport,  but  because  she  had  very  wisely  argued  in  her 
mind  that  one  cannot  set  about  to  elevate  human  nature 
without  a  knowledge  of  those  depths  to  which  it  some- 
times descends. 

"  And  this,"  she  said,  when  she  had  settled  herself  on 
the  chair  commanding  the  best  view,  "  this  is  the  turf." 
"  That,"  corrected  Mr.   Mangles,  pointing  down  to 
the  lawn  with  his  umbrella,  "  is  the  turf.     This  is  the 
grand-stand." 

"  The  whole,"  stated  Miss  Mangles,  rather  sadly,  and 
indicating  with  a  graceful  wave  of  her  card,  which  was 
in  Russian  and  therefore  illegible  to  her,  the  scene  in 
general,  "  the  whole  constitutes  the  turf," 

Joseph  P.  Mangles  sat  corrected,  and  looked  lugu- 
briously at  ISTetty,  who  was  prettily  and  quietly  dressed 
in  autumnal  tints,  which  set  off  her  delicate  and  trans- 
parent complexion  to  perfection.  Her  hair  was  itself 
of  an  autumnal  tint,  and  her  eyes  of  the  deep  blue  of 
October  skies. 

"  And  these  young  men  are  on  it,"  concluded  Miss 

111 


THE    VULTURES 

Mangles,  with  her  usual  decision.  One  privilege  of  her 
sex  she  had  not  laid  aside — tlie  privilege  of  jumping  to 
conclusions.  ISTetty  glanced  beneath  her  dark  lashes  in 
the  direction  indicated  by  Miss  Mangles's  inexorable 
finger;  but  some  of  the  young  men  happening  to  look 
up,  she  instantly  became  interested  in  the  Russian  race- 
card  which  she  could  not  read. 

"  It  is  very  sad,"  she  said. 

Miss  Mangles  continued  to  look  at  the  young  men 
severely,  as  if  making  up  her  mind  how  best  to  take 
them  in  hand. 

"  Don't  see  the  worst  of  'em  here,"  muttered  Mr. 
Mangles,  dismally.  "  It  isn't  round  about  the  grand- 
stand that  young  men  come  to  grief — on  the  turf.  That 
contingent  is  waiting  to  be  called  up  into  the  boxes,  and 
reformed — by  the  young  women." 

Netty  looked  gently  distressed.  At  times  she  almost 
thought  Uncle  Joseph  inclined  to  be  coarse.  She  looked 
across  the  lawn  with  a  rather  wistful  expression,  emi- 
nently suited  to  dark  blue  eyes.  The  young  men  below 
were  still  glancing  up  in  her  direction,  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  see  them.  At  this  moment  Wanda  and  Martin 
returned  to  their  box.  Wanda  was  preoccupied,  and  sat 
down  without  noticing  the  new-comers.  Several  ladies 
leaned  over  the  low  partitions  and  asked  questions, 
which  were  unintelligible  to  Netty,  and  the  news  was 
spread  from  mouth  to  mouth  that  the  Prince  Bukaty 
was  not  hurt. 

Joseph  P.  Mangles  looked  at  the  brother  and  sister 
beneath  his  heavy  brows.  He  knew  quite  well  who  they 
were,  but  did  not  consider  himself  called  upon  to  trans- 
mit the  information. 

"  Even  the  best  people  seem  to  lend  their  countenance 
to  this,"  said  Miss  Mangles,  in  an  undertone. 

112 


THE    WHEELS    OF    CHANCE 

"  You  are  right,  Jooly." 

But  Miss  Mangles  did  not  hear.  She  was  engaged  in 
bowing  to  Paul  Deulin,  who  was  coming  up  the  steps. 
She  was  rather  glad  to  see  him.  Eor  the  feeling  had 
come  over  her  that  she  was  quite  unknown  to  all  these 
people.  This  is  a  feeling  to  which  even  the  greatest  are 
liable,  and  it  is  most  unpleasant.  Eor  the  heart  of  the 
celebrated  is  apt  to  hunger  for  the  nudge  of  recognition 
and  the  surreptitious  sidelong  glance  which  convey  the 
gratifying  fact  that  one  has  been  recognized.  Paul  Deu- 
lin  would  serve  to  enlighten  these  benighted  people,  and 
some  little  good  might  yet  be  done  by  a  distinct  and  dig- 
nified attitude  of  disapproval  towards  the  turf. 

"  One  would  scarcely  expect  to  see  you  here,  Mr. 
Deulin,"  she  said,  shaking  hands,  with  a  playful  shake 
of  the  head. 

"  Since  you  are  here,"  he  answered,  "  there  can  be 
no  harm.    It  is  only  a  garden-party,  after  all." 

And  he  bowed  over  ISTetty's  head  with  an  empresse- 
ment  which  must  have  conveyed  to  any  one  more  versed 
in  the  ways  of  men  the  reason  why  he  had  come. 

"  Do  you  bet,  Mr.  Deulin  ?"  inquired  Jooly. 

"  ISTever,  unless  I  am  quite  sure,"  he  answered. 

"  There  is,"  observed  Miss  Mangles,  who  was  in- 
clined to  be  gracious — "  there  is  perhaps  less  harm  in 
that." 

"  And  less  risk,"  explained  Deulin,  gravely.  "  But 
surely,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  tone,  turning  to  I^etty, 
''  you  know  the  Princess  Wanda  ?  Did  you  not  meet  her 
at  Lady  Orlay's  ?" 

l^etty  had  already  displayed  some  interest  in  Martin 
Bukaty,  which  was  perhaps  indiscreet.     For  a  young 
man's  vanity  is  singularly  alert,  and  he  was  quite  ready 
to  return  the  interest  with  interest,  so  to  speak. 
^  113 


THE     VULTUEES 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  we  met  her  at  Lady  Orlay's. 
But  I  think  she  does  not  remember — thongh  she  seemed 
to  recollect  Mr.  Cartoner,  whom  she  met  at  the  same 
time." 

Deiilin  looked  at  her  with  his  quick  smile  as  he 
nodded  a  little,  comprehending  nod,  and  i^etty's  eyes 
looked  into  his  innocently. 

"  Be  assured,"  he  answered,  "  that  she  has  not  seen 
you,  or  she  would  not  fail  to  remember  you.  You  are 
sitting  back  to  back,  you  observe.  The  princess  is  rather 
distrait  with  thoughts  of  her  father,  who  has  just  had 
a  slight  mishap." 

He  bent  forward  as  he  spoke  and  touched  Wanda  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Wanda,"  he  said,  "  this  young  lady  remembers 
meeting  you  in  London." 

Wanda  turned  and,  rising,  held  her  hand  over  the  low 
barrier  that  divided  the  two  boxes. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Cahere.  You  must 
excuse  my  sitting  down  so  near  to  you  without  seeing 
you.     I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

"  I  hardly  expect  you  to  recollect  me,"  ISTetty 
hastened  to  say.  "  You  must  have  met  so  many  people 
in  London.  Is  it  not  odd  that  so  many  who  were  at 
Lady  Orlay's  that  night  should  be  in  Warsaw  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Wanda,  rather  absently.  "  Are 
there  many  ?" 

"  Why,  yes.  Mr.  Deulin  was  there,  and  yourself  and 
the  prince  and  we  three  and — Mr.  Cartoner." 

She  looked  round  as  she  spoke  for  Cartoner,  but  only 
met  Martin  Bukaty's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  open 
admiration.  When  speaking  she  had  much  animation, 
and  her  eyes  were  bright. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  here  with  your  brother.     The 

114 


THE     WHEELS     OF     CHANCE 

likeness  is  unmistakable.  I  hope  the  prince  is  not 
hurt  ?"  she  said,  in  her  little,  friendly,  confidential  way 
to  Wanda. 

"  1^0,  he  is  not  hurt,  thank  you.  Yes,  that  is  my 
brother.  May  I  introduce  him  ?  Martin.  Miss  Cahere 
— my  brother." 

And  the  introduction  was  effected,  which  was  perhaps 
what  ISTetty  wanted.  She  did  not  take  much  notice  of 
Martin,  but  continued  to  talk  to  Wanda. 

"  It  must  be  so  interesting,"  she  said,  "  to  live  in 
Warsaw  and  to  be  able  to  help  the  poor  people  who  are 
so  down-trodden." 

"  But  I  do  nothing  of  that  sort,"  replied  Wanda. 
"  It  is  only  in  books  that  women  can  do  anything  for 
the  people  of  their  country.  All  I  can  do  for  Poland 
is  to  see  that  one  old  Polish  gentleman  gets  what  he 
likes  for  dinner,  and  to  housekeep  generally — just  as 
you  do  when  you  are  at  home,  no  doubt." 

"  Oh,"  protested  Netty,  "  but  I  am  not  so  useful  as 
that.  That  is  what  distresses  me.  I  seem  to  be  of  no 
use  to  anybody.  And  I  am  sure  I  could  never  house« 
keep." 

And  some  faint  line  of  thought,  suggested  perhaps  by 
the  last  remark,  made  her  glance  in  passing  at  Martin. 
It  was  so  quick  that  only  Martin  saw  it.  At  all  events, 
Paul  Deulin  appeared  to  be  looking  rather  vacantly  in 
another  direction. 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Mangles  does  all  that  when  you  are 
at  home?"  said  Wanda,  glancing  towards  the  great 
woman,  who  was  just  out  of  ear-shot. 

"  My  dear  Wanda,"  put  in  Deulin,  in  a  voice  of 
gravest  protest,  "  you  surely  do  not  expect  that  of  a  lady 
who  housekeeps  for  all  humanity.  Miss  Mangles  is  one 
of  our  leaders  of  thought.     I  saw  her  so  described  in  a 

115 


THE    VULTUKES 

prominent  journal  of  Smitbville,  Ohio.  Miss  Mangles, 
in  her  care  for  the  world,  has  no  time  to  think  of  an  in- 
dividual household." 

"  Besides,"  said  Ketty,  "  we  have  no  settled  home 
in  America.  We  live  diiferentlj.  We  have  not  the 
comfort  of  European  life." 

And  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  looking  wistfully  across 
the  plain.  Martin  noticed  that  she  had  a  pretty  pro- 
file, and  the  tenderest  little  droop  of  the  lips. 

At  this  moment  a  race,  the  last  on  the  card,  put  a 
stop  to  further  conversation,  and  ISTetty  refused,  very 
properly,  to  deprive  Martin  of  the  use  of  his  field- 
glasses. 

"  I  can  see,"  she  said,  in  her  confidential  way,  "  well 
enough  for  myself  with  my  own  eyes." 

And  Martin  looked  into  the  eyes,  so  vaunted,  with 
]nuch  interest. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said  to  Wanda,  when  the  race  was 
over,  "  that  I  saw  Mr.  Cartoner  a  short  time  ago.  Has 
he  gone  ?" 

"  I  fancy  he  has,"  was  the  reply. 

"  He  did  not  see  us.  And  we  quite  forgot  to  tell 
him  the  number  of  our  box.  I  only  hope  he  was  not 
offended.  We  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  on  board.  We 
crossed  the  Atlantic  in  the  same  ship,  you  know." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes.  And  one  becomes  so  intimate  on  a  voyage. 
It  is  quite  ridiculous." 

Deulin,  leaning  against  the  pillar  at  the  back  of  the 
box,  was  thoughtfully  twisting  his  grizzled  mustache 
as  he  watched  Netty.  There  was  in  his  attitude  some 
faint  suggestion  of  an  engineer  who  has  set  a  machine 
in  motion  and  is  watching  the  result  with  a  contem- 
plative satisfaction. 

116 


THE    WHEELS    OF    CHANCE 

Martin  was  reluctantly  making  a  move.  One  or  two 
carriages  were  allowed  to  come  to  the  gate  of  the  lawn, 
and  of  these  one  was  Prince  Bukaty's. 

"  Come,  Wanda,"  said  Martin.  "  We  must  not  keep 
him  waiting.  I  can  see  him,  with  his  two  sticks,  com- 
ing out  of  the  club  enclosure." 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  make  sure  that  he  is  none  the 
worse,"  said  Deulin,  "  and  then  return  to  the  assistance 
of  these  ladies." 

He  did  not  speak  as  they  moved  slowly  through  the 
crowd.  Nor  did  he  explain  to  Wanda  why  he  had  re- 
introduced Miss  Cahere.  He  stood  watching  the  car- 
riages after  they  had  gone. 

"  The  gods  forbid,"  he  said,  piously,  to  himself, 
"  that  I  should  attempt  to  interfere  in  the  projects  of 
Providence !  But  it  is  well  that  Wanda  should  know 
who  are  her  friends  and  who  her  enemies.  And  I 
think  she  knows  now,  my  shrewd  princess." 

And  he  bowed,  bareheaded,  in  response  to  a  gay  wave 
of  the  hand  from  Wanda  as  the  carriage  turned  the 
corner  and  disappeared.  He  turned  on  his  heel,  to  find 
himself  cut  off  from  the  grand-stand  by  a  dense  throng 
of  people  moving  rather  confusedly  towards  the  exit. 
The  sky  was  black,  and  a  shower  was  impending. 

"  Ah,  well !"  he  muttered,  philosophically,  "  they  are 
capable  of  taking  care  of  themselves." 

And  he  joined  the  throng  making  for  the  gates.  It 
/appeared,  however,  that  he  gave  more  credit  than  was 
merited ;  for  Netty  was  carried  along  by  a  stream  of 
people  whose  aim  was  a  gate  to  the  left  of  the  great 
gate,  and  though  she  saw  the  hat  of  her  uncle  above  the 
hats  of  the  other  men,  she  could  not  make  her  way 
towards  it.  Mr.  Mangles  and  his  sister  passed  out  of 
the  large  gateway,  and  waited  in  the  first  available 


THE     VULTUEES 

space  beyond  it.  ISTetty  was  carried  "bj  the  gentle 
pressure  of  the  crowd  to  the  smaller  gate,  and  having 
passed  it,  decided  to  wait  till  her  uncle,  who  undoubted- 
ly must  have  seen  her,  should  come  in  search  of  her. 
She  was  not  uneasy.  All  through  her  life  she  had  al- 
ways found  people,  especially  men,  ready,  nay,  anx- 
ious, to  be  kind  to  her.  She  was  looking  round  for 
Mr.  Mangles  when  a  man  came  towards  her.  He  was 
only  a  workman  in  his  best  suit  of  working  clothes. 
He  had  a  narrow,  sunburned  face,  and  there  was  in  his 
whole  being  a  not  unpleasant  suggestion  of  the  sea- 
faring life. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  in  perfect  English,  as  he 
raised  his  cap,  "  that  you  have  lost  the  rest  of  your 
party.  You  are  also  in  the  wrong  course,  so  to  speak. 
We  are  the  commoner  people  here,  you  see.  Can  I 
help  you  to  find  your  father  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  JSTetty,  without  concealing 
her  surprise.  "  I  think  my  uncle  went  out  of  the  larger 
gate,  and  it  seems  impossible  to  get  at  him.  Per- 
haps— " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Kosmaroff,  "  I  will  show  you  an- 
other way  with  pleasure.  Then  that  tall  gentleman  is 
not  your  father  ?" 

"  ISTo.  Mr.  Mangles  is  my  uncle,"  replied  ISTetty, 
following  her  companion. 

"  Ah,  that  is  Mr.  Mangles !  An  American,  is  he 
not?" 

"  Yes.    We  are  Americans." 

"A  diplomatist?" 

"  Yes,  my  uncle  is  in  the  service." 

"  And  you  are  at  the  Europe.  Yes,  I  have  heard  of 
Mr.  Mangles.  This  way;  we  can  pass  through  this 
alley  and  come  to  the  large  gate." 

118 


THE     WHEELS     OF     CHANCE 

"  But  jou — yon  are  not  a  Pole  ?  It  is  so  kind  of  yon 
to  help  me,"  said  ]^etty,  looking  at  him  with  some  in- 
terest. And  Kosmaroff,  perceiving  this  interest,  slight- 
ly changed  his  manner. 

"  Ah !  yon  are  looking  at  my  clothes,"  he  said,  rather 
less  formally.  "  In  Poland  things  are  not  always  what 
they  seem,  mademoiselle.  Yes,  I  am  a  Pole.  I  am  a 
boatman,  and  keep  my  boat  at  the  foot  of  Bednarska 
Street,  just  above  the  bridge.  If  yon  ever  want  to  go 
on  the  river,  it  is  pleasant  in  the  evening,  you  and 
your  party,  you  will  perhaps  do  me  the  great  honor  of 
selecting  my  poor  boat,  mademoiselle  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  remember,"  ansM'ered  ISTetty,  who  did 
not  seem  to  notice  that  his  glance  was,  as  it  were,  less 
distant  than  his  speech. 

"  I  knew  at  once — at  once,"  he  said,  "  that  you  were 
English  or  American." 

"  Ah !  Then  there  is  a  difference — "  said  ITetty, 
looking  round  for  her  uncle. 

"  There  is  a  difference — ^yes,  assuredly." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  ISTetty,  with  a  subtle  tone  of 
expectancy  in  her  voice. 

"  Your  mirror  will  answer  that  question,"  replied 
Kosmaroff,  with  his  odd,  one-sided  smile,  "  more  plain- 
ly than  I  should  ever  dare  to  do.  There  is  your  uncle, 
mademoiselle,  and  I  must  go." 

Mr.  Mangles,  perceiving  the  situation,  was  coming 
forward  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  when  Kosmaroff 
took  off  his  cap  and  hurried  away. 

"  No,"  said  Netty,  laying  her  hand  on  Mr.  Mangles's 
arm,  "  do  not  give  him  anything.  He  was  rather  a 
superior  man,  and  spoke  a  little  English." 


XIV 

SENTENCED 


'CPi>0, 


^ 


?IKE  the  majority  of  Englishmen,  Car- 
toner    had    that    fever    of    the    horizon 
which  makes  a  man  desire  to  get  out 
of  a  pLace  as  soon  as  he  is  in  it.     The 
^i  average  Englishman   is   not  content  to 
j.-^ouoo  g^^g    ^   city;    he   must   walk   out   of   it, 

through  its  suburhs  and  beyond  them,  just  to  see  how 
the  city  lies. 

Before  he  had  been  long  in  Warsaw,  Cartoner  hired 
a  horse  and  took  leisurely  rides  out  of  the  town  in  all 
directions.  He  found  suburbs  more  or  less  depressing, 
and  dust  J  roads  innocent  of  all  art,  half-paved,  grow- 
ing Avider  with  the  lapse  of  years,  as  in  self-defence 
the  foot-i:)assengers  encroached  on  the  fields  on  either 
side  in  search  of  a  cleaner  thoroughfare.  To  the  north 
ho  found  that  great  fort  which  a  Ilussian  emperor  built 
for  Warsaw's  good,  and  which  in  case  of  emergency 
could  batter  the  city  down  in  a  few  hours,  but  could 
not  defend  it  from  any  foe  whatever.  Across  the  river 
he  rode  through  Praga,  of  grimmest  memory,  into  close-' 
ly  cultivated  plains.  But  mostly  he  rode  by  the  river- 
banks,  where  there  are  more  trees  and  where  the  coun- 
try is  less  uniform.  He  rode  more  often  than  else- 
where southward  by  the  Vistula,  and  knew  the  various 
roads  and  paths  that  led  to  Wilanow. 

120 


SENTENCED 

One  evening,  when  clouds  had  been  gathering  all  day 
and  the  twilight  was  shorter  than  usual,  he  was  be- 
nighted in  the  low  lands  that  lie  parallel  with  the  Saska 
Island.  He  knew  his  whereabouts,  however,  and  soon 
struck  that  long  and  lonely  river-side  road,  the  Czer- 
niakowska,  which  leads  into  the  manufacturing  dis- 
tricts where  the  sugar-refineries  and  the  iron-foundries 
are.  It  was  inches  deep  in  dust,  and  he  rode  in  silence 
on  the  silent  way.  Before  him  loomed  the  chimney  of 
the  large  iron-works,  which  clang  and  rattle  all  day  in 
the  ears  of  the  idlers  in  the  Lazienki  Park. 

Before  he  reached  the  high  wall  that  surrounds  these 
works  on  the  land  side  he  got  out  of  the  saddle  and  care- 
fully tried  the  four  shoes  of  his  horse.  One  of  them 
was  loose.  He  loosened  it  further,  working  at  it  pa- 
tiently with  the  handle  of  his  whip.  Then  he  led  the 
horse  forward  and  found  that  it  limped,  which  seemed 
to  satisfy  him.  As  he  walked  on,  with  the  bridle  over 
his  arm,  he  consulted  his  watch.  There  was  just  light 
enough  left  to  show  him  that  it  was  nearly  six. 

The  iron-foundries  were  quiet  now.  They  had  been 
closed  at  five.  From  the  distant  streets  the  sound  of  the 
trafiic  came  to  his  ears  in  a  long,  low  roar,  like  the 
breaking  of  surf  upon  shingle  far  away. 

Cartoner  led  his  horse  to  the  high  double  door  that 
gave  access  to  the  iron-foundry.  He  turned  the  horse 
very  exactly  and  carefully,  so  that  the  animal's  shoul- 
der pressed  against  that  half  of  the  door  which  opened 
first.  Then  he  rang  the  bell,  of  which  the  chain  swung 
gently  in  the  wind.  It  gave  a  solitary  clang  inside  the 
deserted  works.  After  a  few  moments  there  was  the 
sound  of  rusted  bolts  being  slowly  withdrawn,  and 
at  the  right  moment  Cartoner  touched  the  horse  with 
his  whip,  so  that  it  started  forward  against  the  door 

121 


THE     VULTUEES 

and  thrust  it  open,  despite  the  efforts  of  the  gate- 
keeper, who  staggered  back  into  the  dimlj  lighted 
yard. 

Cartoner  looked  quickly  round  him.  All  was  dark- 
ness except  an  open  doorway,  from  which  a  shaft  of 
light  poured  out,  dimly  illuminating  cranes  and  carts 
and  piles  of  iron  girders.  The  gate-keeper  was  hur- 
riedly bolting  the  gate.  Cartoner  led  his  horse  towards 
the  open  door,  but  before  he  reached  it  a  number  of 
men  ran  out  and  fell  on  him  like  hounds  upon  a  fox. 
He  leaped  back,  abandoning  his  horse,  and  striking 
the  first-comer  full  in  the  chest  with  his  fist.  He 
charged  the 'next  and  knocked  him  over;  but  from  flie 
tliird  he  retreated,  leaping  quickly  to  one  side. 

"  Bukaty  !"  he  cried;  "  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"  You,  Cartoner !"  replied  Martin.  He  spread  out 
his  arms,  and  the  men  behind  him  ran  against  them. 
He  turned  and  said  something  to  them  in  Polish,  which 
Cartoner  did  not  catch.  "  You  here !"  he  said.  And 
there  was  a  ring  in  the  gay,  rather  light  voice,  which 
the  Englishman  had  never  heard  there  before.  But 
he  had  heard  it  in  other  voices,  and  knew  the  meaning 
of  it.  For  his  work  had  brought  him  into  contact  with 
refined  men  in  moments  when  their  refinement  only 
serves  to  harden  that  grimmer  side  of  human  nature 
of  which  half  humanity  is  in  happy  ignorance,  which 
deals  in  battle  and  sudden  death. 

"  It  is  too  risky,"  said  some  one,  almost  in  Martin's 
ear,  in  Polish,  but  Cartoner  heard  it.  "  We  must  kill 
him  and  be  done  with  it." 

There  was  an  odd  silence  for  a  moment,  onlv  broken 
by  the  stealthy  feet  of  the  gate-keeper  coming  forward 
to  join  the  group.  Then  Cartoner  spoke,  quietly  and 
collectedly.    His  nerve  was  so  steady  that  he  had  taken 

122 


SENTENCED 

time  to  reflect  as  to  which  tongue  to  make  use  of.  For 
all  had  disadvantages,  but  silence  meant  death. 

"  This  near  fore-shoe,"  he  said  in  French,  turning 
to  his  horse,  "  is  nearly  off.  It  has  been  loose  all  the 
way  from  Wilanow.  This  is  a  foundry,  is  it  not? 
There  must  be  a  hammer  and  some  nails  about." 

Martin  gave  a  sort  of  gasp  of  relief.  For  a  moment 
he  had  thought  there  was  no  loop-hole. 

Cartoner  looked  towards  the  door,  and  the  light  fell 
full  upon  his  patient,  thoughtful  face.  The  faces  of 
the  men  standing  in  a  half -circle  in  front  of  him  were 
in  the  dark. 

"  Good !  He's  a  brave  man !"  muttered  the  man 
who  had  spoken  in  Martin's  ear.  It  was  Kosmaroff. 
And  he  stepped  back  a  pace. 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin,  hastily,  "  this  is  a  foundry.  I 
can  get  you  a  hammer." 

His  right  hand  was  opening  and  shutting  convul- 
sively. Cartoner  glanced  at  it,  and  Martin  put  it  be- 
hind his  back.  He  was  rather  breathless,  and  he  was 
angrily  wishing  that  he  had  the  Englishman's  nerve. 

"  You  might  tell  these  men,"  he  said,  in  French, 
"  of  my  mishap ;  perhaps  one  of  them  can  put  it  right, 
and  I  can  get  along  home.  I  am  desperately  hungry. 
The  journey  has  been  so  slow  from  Wilanow." 

He  had  already  perceived  that  Kosmaroff  understood 
both  English  and  French,  and  that  it  was  of  him  that 
Martin  was  afraid.  He  spoke  slowly,  so  as  to  give 
Martin  time  to  pull  himself  together.  Kosmaroff 
stepped  forward  to  the  horse  and  examined  the  shoe 
indicated.     It  was  nearly  off. 

Martin  turned,  and  explained  in  Polish  that  the 
gentleman  had  come  for  a  hammer  and  some  nails — 
that  his  horse  had  nearly  lost  a  shoe.     Cartoner  had 

123 


THE     VULTURES 

simply  forced  him  to  become  his  ally,  and  had  even 
indicated  the  line  of  conduct  he  was  to  pursue. 

"  Get  a  hammer — one  of  you/'  said  Kosmaroff,  over 
his  shoulder,  and  Martin  bit  his  lip  with  a  sudden  de- 
sire to  speak — to  say  more  than  was  discreet.  He  took 
his  cue  in  some  way  from  Cartoner,  without  knowing 
that  wise  men  cease  persuading  the  moment  they  have 
gained  consent,     ^ever  comment  on  your  own  victory. 

Never  had  Cartoner's  silent  habit  stood  him  in  such 
good  stead  as  during  the  following  moments,  while  a 
skilled  workman  replaced  the  lost  shoe.  ISTever  had  he 
observed  so  skilled  a  silence,  or  left  unsaid  such  danger- 
ous words.  For  Kosmaroff  watched  him  as  a  cat  may 
watch  a  bird.  Behind,  were  the  barred  gates,  and  in 
front,  the  semicircle  of  men,  whose  faces  he  could  not 
see,  while  the  full  light  glared  through  the  open  door- 
way upon  his  own  countenance.  Two  miles  from  War- 
saw— a  dark  autumn  night,  and  eleven  men  to  one.  He 
counted  them,  in  a  mechanical  way,  as  persons  in  face  of 
death  nearly  always  do  count,  with  a  cold  deliberation, 
their  chances  of  life.  He  played  his  miserable  little 
cards  with  all  the  skill  he  possessed,  and  his  knowledge 
of  the  racial  characteristics  of  humanity  served  him. 
Eor  he  acted  slowly,  and  gave  his  enemies  leisure  to 
see  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  kill  him.  They  would 
see  it  in  time;  for  they  were  not  Frenchmen,  nor  of 
any  other  Celtic  race,  who  would  have  killed  him  first 
and  recognized  their  mistake  immediately  afterwards. 
They  were  Slavs — of  the  most  calculating  race  the 
world  has  produced — a  little  slow  in  their  calculations. 
So  he  gave  them  time,  just  as  Russia  must  have  time ; 
but  she  will  reach  the  summit  eventually,  when  her  far- 
sighted  policy  is  fully  evolved — long,  long  after  reader 
and  writer  are  dust. 

124 


SENTENCED 

Cartoner  gave  the  workman  half  a  rouble,  which  was 
accepted  with  a  muttered  word  of  thanks,  and  then  he 
turned  towards  the  great  doors,  which  were  barred. 
There  was  another  pause,  while  the  gate-keeper  looked 
inquiringly  at  Kosmaroff. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Cartoner  to 
Martin,  who  went  towards  the  gate  as  if  to  draw  back 
the  bolt.  But  at  a  sig-nal  from  Kosmaroff  the  gate- 
keeper sprang  forward  and  opened  the  heavy  doors. 

Martin  was  nearest,  and  instinctively  held  the  stir- 
rup, while  Cartoner  climbed  into  the  saddle. 

"  Saved  your  life !"  he  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  know,"  answered  Cartoner,  turning  in  his  sad- 
dle to  lift  his  hat  to  the  men  gTouped  behind  him.  He 
looked  over  their  heads  into  the  open  doorway,  but  could 
see  nothing.  Nevertheless,  he  knew  where  were  con- 
cealed the  arms  brought  out  into  the  North  Sea  by  Cap- 
tain Cable  in  the  Mimiie. 

"  More  than  I  bargained  for,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, as  he  rode  away  from  the  iron-foundry  by  the  river. 
He  put  his  horse  to  a  trot  and  presently  to  a  canter 
along  the  deserted,  dusty  road.  The  animal  was  aston- 
ishingly fresh  and  went  off  at  a  good  pace,  so  that  the 
man  sent  by  Kosmaroff  to  follow  him  was  soon  breath- 
less and  forced  to  give  up  the  chase. 

Approaching  the  town,  Cartoner  rode  at  a  more 
leisurely  pace.  That  his  life  had  hung  on  a  thread 
since  sunset  did  not  seem  to  affect  him  much,  and  he 
looked  about  him  with  quiet  eyes,  while  the  hand  on  the 
bridle  was  steady. 

He  was,  it  seemed,  one  of  those  fortunate  wayfarers 
who  see  their  road  clearly  before  them,  and  for  whom 
the  barriers  of  duty  and  honor,  which  stand  on  either 
side  of  every  man's  path,  present  neither  gap  nor  gate. 

125 


THE    VULTUEES 

He  had  courage  and  patience,  and  was  content  to  exer- 
cise both,  without  weighing  the  chances  of  reward  too 
carefully.  That  he  read  his  duty  in  a  different  sense 
to  that  understood  by  other  men  was  no  doubt  only 
that  which  this  tolerant  age  calls  a  matter  of  tempera- 
ment. 

"  That  Cartoner,"  Deulin  was  in  the  habit  of  saying, 

'■'  takes  certain  things  so  seriously,  and  other  things — 

►social  things,  to  which  I  give  most  careful  attention — 

he  ignores.     And  yet  we  often  reach  the  same  end  by 

different  routes." 

Which  was  quite  true.  But  Deulin  reached  the  end 
by  a  happy  guess,  and  that  easy  exercise  of  intuition 
which  is  the  special  gift  of  the  Gallic  race,  while  Car- 
toner  worked  his  way  towards  his  goal  with  a  steady 
perseverance  and  slow,  sure  steps. 

"  In  a  moment  of  danger  give  me  Cartoner,"  Deulin 
had  once  said. 

On  more  than  one  occasion  Cartoner  had  shovni  quite 
clearly,  without  words,  that  he  understood  and  ap- 
preciated that  odd  mixture  of  heroism  and  frivolity 
which  will  always  puzzle  the  world  and  draw  its  won- 
dering attention  to  France.  The  two  men  never  com- 
pared notes,  never  helped  each  other,  never  exchanged 
the  minutest  confidence. 

Joseph  P.  Mangles  was  different.  He  spoke  quite 
openly  of  his  work. 

"  Got  a  job  in  Russia,"  he  had  stolidly  told  any  one 
who  asked  him.  "  Cold,  unhealthy  place."  He  seemed 
to  enter  upon  his  duties  with  the  casual  interest  of  the 
amateur,  and,  in  a  way,  exactly  embodied  the  attitude 
of  his  country  towards  Europe,  of  which  the  many 
wheels  within  wheels  may  spin  and  whir  or  halt  and 
grind  without  in  any  degree  affecting  the  great  repub- 

126 


SENTENCED 

lie.  America  can  afford  to  content  herself  with  the 
knowledge  of  what  has  happened  or  is  happening. 
Countries  nearer  to  the  field  of  action  must  know  what 
is  going  to  happen. 

Cartoner  rode  placidly  to  the  stable  where  he  had 
hired  his  horse,  and  delivered  the  beast  to  its  owner. 
He  had  no  one  in  Warsaw  to  go  to  and  relate  his  ad- 
ventures. He  was  alone,  as  he  had  been  all  his  life — 
alone  with  his  failures  and  his  small  successes — con- 
tent, it  would  seem,  to  be  a  good  servant  in  a  great 
service. 

He  went  to  the  restaurant  of  the  Hotel  de  France, 
which  is  a  quiet  place  of  refreshment  close  to  the  Jasna, 
which  has  no  political  importance,  like  the  restaurant 
of  the  Europe,  and  there  dined.  The  square  was  de- 
serted as  he  stumbled  over  the  vile  pavement  towards 
his  rooms.  The  concierge  was  sitting  at  the  door  of 
the  quiet  house  where  he  had  taken  an  apartment.  All 
along  the  street  the  dvornik  of  every  house  thus  takes 
his  station  at  the  half-closed  door  at  nightfall.  And  it 
is  so  all  through  the  town.  It  is  a  Eussian  custom,  im- 
ported among  others  into  the  free  kingdom  of  Poland, 
when  the  great  empire  of  the  north  cast  the  shadow 
of  its  protecting  wing  over  the  land  that  is  watered  by 
the  Vistula.  So,  no  man  may  come  or  go  in  Warsaw 
without  having  his  movements  carefully  noted  by  one 
who  is  directly  responsible  to  the  authorities  for  the 
good  name  of  the  house  under  his  care. 

"  The  post  is  in.  There  is  a  letter  up-stairs,"  said 
the  door-keeper  to  Cartoner,  as  he  passed  in.  Cartoner's 
servant  was  out,  and  the  lamps  were  turned  low  when 
he  entered  his  sitting-room.  He  knew  that  the  letter 
must  be  the  reply  to  his  application  for  a  recall.  He 
turned  up  the  lamp,  and,  taking  the  letter  from  the 

127 


THE    VULTUKES 

table  where  it  lay  in  a  prominent  position,  sat  down  in 
a  deep  chair  to  read  it  at  leisure. 

It  bore  no  address,  and  prattled  of  the  crops.  Some 
of  it  seemed  to  be  nonsense.  Cartoner  read  it  slowly 
and  carefully.  It  was  an  order,  in  brief  and  almost 
brutal  language,  to  stay  where  he  was  and  do  the  work 
intrusted  to  him.  Eor  a  man  who  writes  in  a  code 
must  j)erforce  avoid  verbosity. 


XV 


A  TALE  HALF  TOLD 


'HE  heart  soon  accustoms  itself  to  tliat 
existence  wliicli  is  called  living  upon  a 
volcano.  Prince  Bukaty  bad  indeed 
known  no  other  life,  and  to  such  as  had 
daily  intercourse  with  him  he  was  quite 
a  peaceful  and  jovial  old  gentleman. 
He  had  brought  up  bis  children  in  the  same  atmos- 
phere of  strife  and  peril,  and  it  is  to  be  presumed  that 
the  fit  bad  survived,  while  that  unfit  princess,  his  wife, 
bad  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  quite  soon,  not  daring 
to  meet  the  years  in  which  there  could  be  no  hope  of 
alleviation. 

The  prince's  friends  were  not  in  Warsaw ;  many  were 
at  the  mines.  Some  lived  in  Paris ;  others  were  exiled 
to  distant  parts  of  Russia.  His  generation  was  slowly 
passing  away,  and  its  history  is  one  of  the  grimmest 
stories  untold.  Yet  he  sat  in  that  bare  drawing-room 
of  a  poor  man  and  read  bis  Figaro  quite  placidly,  like 
any  bourgeois  in  the  safety  of  the  suburb,  only  glanc- 
ing at  the  clock  from  time  to  time. 

"  He  is  late,"  he  said  once,  as  he  folded  the  paper, 
and  that  was  all. 

■  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  and  Martin  had  been 
expected  to  return  to  dinner  at  half-past  six.     Wanda 
was  working,  and  she,  too,  glanced  towards  the  clock 
®  129 


THE    VULTUKES 

at  intervals.  She  was  always  uneasy  about  Martin, 
whose  daring  was  rather  of  the  reckless  type,  whose 
genius  lay  more  in  leadership  than  in  strategy.  As  to 
her  father,  he  had  come  through  the  sixties,  and  had 
survived  the  persecution  and  the  dangers  of  Wielopol- 
ski's  day — he  could  reasonably  be  expected  to  take  care 
of  liimself.  With  regard  to  herself,  she  had  no  fear. 
Hers  was  the  woman's  lot  of  watching  others  in  a  dan- 
ger which  she  could  not  share. 

It  was  nearly  half-past  eleven  when  Martin  came  in. 
He  was  in  riding-costume  and  was  covered  with  dirt. 
His  eyes,  rimmed  with  dust,  looked  out  of  a  face  that 
was  pale  beneath  the  sunburn.  He  threw  himself  into 
a  chair  with  an  exclamation  of  fatigue. 

"  Had  any  dinner  ?"  asked  his  father. 

Wanda  looked  at  her  brother's  face,  and  changed 
color  herself.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  the  wild  rose 
in  Wanda's  face,  with  its  delicate,  fleeting  shades  of 
pink  and  white,  while  the  slim  strength  of  her  limbs 
and  carriage  rather  added  to  a  characteristic  which  is 
essentially  English  or  Polish.  For  American  girls 
suggest  a  fuller  flower  on  a  firmer  stem. 

"  Something  has  happened,"  said  Wanda,  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Martin,  stretching  out  his  slight  legs. 

The  prince  laid  aside  his  newspaper,  and  looked  up 
quickly.  When  his  attention  was  thus  roused  suddenly 
his  eyes  and  his  whole  face  were  momentarily  fierce. 
Some  one  had  once  said  that  the  history  of  Poland  was 
written  on  those  deep-lined  features. 

"  Anything  wrong  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing  that  affects  afi^airs,"  replied  Martin. 
"  Everything  is  safe." 

Which  seemed  to  be  catch-words,  for  Kosmaroff  had 
made  use  of  almost  the  identical  phrases. 

130 


SOMETHING    HAS    HAPPENED,'    SAID    WANDA,   QUIETLY" 


A     TALE    HALF    TOLD 


i( 


I  am  quite  confident  tliat  there  is  no  danger  to 
affairs,"  continued  Martin,  speaking  with  the  haste 
and  vehemence  of  a  man  who  is  anxious  to  convince 
liimself.  "  It  was  a  mere  mischance,  but  it  gave  us 
all  a  horrid  fright,  I  can  tell  jou — especially  me,  for 
I  was  doubly  interested.  Cartoner  rode  into  our  midst 
to-night." 

"  Cartoner  ?"  repeated  the  prince. 

"  Yes.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  when  the  door  was 
opened — ^we  were  expecting  some  one  else — he  led  his 
horse  into  our  midst,  with  a  loose  shoe." 

"  Wlio  saw  him  ?"  asked  the  prince. 

"  Every  one." 

"Kosmaroff?" 

"  Yes.  And  if  I  had  not  been  there  it  would  have 
been  all  up  with  Cartoner.  You  know  what  Kosmaroff 
is.     It  was  a  very  near  thing." 

"  That  would  have  been  a  mistake,"  said  the  prince, 
reflectively.  "  It  was  the  mistake  they  made  last  time. 
It  has  never  paid  yet  to  take  life  in  driblets." 

"  That  is  what  I  told  Kosmaroff  afterwards,  when 
Cartoner  had  gone.  It  was  evident  that  it  could  only 
have  been  an  accident.  Cartoner  could  not  have  known. 
To  do  a  thing  like  that,  he  must  have  known  all — or 
nothing." 

"  He  could  not  have  known  all,"  said  the  prince. 
''  That  is  an  impossibility." 

"  Then  he  must  have  known  nothing,"  put  in  Wanda, 
with  a  laugh,  which  at  one  stroke  robbed  the  matter  of 
much  of  its  importance. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  much  he  perceived  when  he  was 
in — as  to  his  own  danger,  I  mean — for  he  has  an  ex- 
cellent nerve,  and  was  steady;  steadier  than  I  was. 
But  he  knows  that  there  was  something  wrong,"  said 

131 


THE    VULTUKES 

Martin,  wiping  the  dust  from  his  face  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief.  His  hand  shook  a  little,  as  if  he  had 
ridden  hard,  or  had  been  badly  frightened.  We  had  a 
bad  half-hour  after  he  left,  especially  with  Kosmaroff. 
The  man  is  only  half-tamed ;  that  is  the  truth  of  it." 

"  That  is  more  to  his  own  danger  than  to  any  one 
else's,"  put  in  Wanda,  again.  She  spoke  lightly,  and 
seemed  quite  determined  to  make  as  little  of  the  in- 
cident as  possible. 

"  Then  how  do  matters  stand  ?"  inquired  the  prince. 

"  It  comes  to  this,"  answered  Martin,  "  that  Poland 
is  not  big  enough  to  hold  both  Kosmaroff  and  Car- 
toner.  Cartoner  must  go.  He  must  be  told  to  go,  or 
else — " 

Wanda  had  taken  up  her  work  again.  As  she  looked 
at  it  attentively,  the  color  slowly  faded  from  her  face. 

"  Or  else — what  ?"  she  inquired. 

Martin  shrugged  his  shoulder?. 

"  Well,  Kosmaroff  is  not  a  man  to  stick  at  trifles." 

"  You  mean,"  said  Wanda,  who  would  have  things 
plainly,  "  that  he  would  assassinate  him  ?" 

Wanda  glanced  at  her  father.  She  knew  that  men 
hard  jDressed  are  no  sticklers.  She  knew  the  story  of 
the  last  insurrection,  and  of  the  wholesale  assassina- 
tion, abetted  and  encouraged  by  the  anonymous  nation- 
al government  of  which  the  members  remain  to  this 
day  unknown.  The  prince  made  an  indifferent  gesture 
of  the  hand. 

"  We  cannot  go  into  those  small  matters.  We  are 
playing  a  bigger  game  than  that.  It  has  always  been 
agreed  that  no  individual  life  must  be  allowed  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  success." 

"  It  is  upon  that  principle  that  Kosmaroff  argues," 
said  Martin,  uneasily. 

132 


A    TALE    HALF    TOLD 

"  Precisely ;  and  as  I  was  not  present  when  this  hap- 
pened— as  it  is,  moreover,  not  my  department — I  can- 
not, personally,  act  in  the  matter." 

"  Kosmaroff  will  obey  nobody  else." 

"  Then  warn  Cartoner,"  the  prince  said,  in  a  final 
voice.  His  had  always  been  the  final  word.  He  would 
say  to  one,  go;  and  to  another,  come. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  said  Martin,  looking  at  Wanda. 
"  You  know  my  position — how  I  am  watched." 

"  There  is  only  one  person  in  Warsaw  who  can  do 
it,"  said  Wanda—"  Paul  Deulin." 

"  Deulin  could  do  it,"  said  the  prince,  thoughtfully. 
"  But  I  never  talk  to  Deulin  of  these  matters.  Politics 
are  a  forbidden  subject  between  us." 

"  Then  I  will  go  and  see  Monsieur  Deulin  the  first 
thing  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Wanda,  quietly. 

"  You  ?"  asked  her  father.  And  Martin  looked  at 
her  in  silent  surprise.  The  old  prince's  eyes  flashed 
suddenly. 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  that  you  run  the  risk  of 
making  people  talk  of  you.  They  may  talk  of  us — of 
Martin  and  me — the  world  has  talked  of  the  Bukatys 
for  some  centuries — but  never  of  their  women." 

"  They  will  not  talk  of  me,"  returned  Wanda,  com- 
posedly. "  I  will  see  to  that.  A  word  to  Mr.  Cartoner 
will  be  enough.  I  understood  him  to  say  that  he  was 
not  going  to  stay  long  in  Warsaw." 

The  prince  had  acquired  the  habit  of  leaving  many 
things  to  Wanda.  He  knew  that  she  was  wiser  than 
Martin,  and  in  some  ways  more  capable. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  rising.  "  I  take  no  hand  in  it.  It 
is  very  late.     Let  us  go  to  bed." 

He  paused  half-way  towards  the  door. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  he  said,  "  which  we  should 

133 


THE    VULTURES 

be  wise  to  recollect — that  whatever  Cartoner  may  know 
or  may  not  know  will  go  no  farther.  He  is  a  diplo- 
matist. It  is  his  business  to  know  everything  and  to 
say  nothing." 

"  Then,  by  Heaven,  he  knows  his  business !"  cried 
Martin,  with  his  reckless  laugh. 

There  are  three  entrances  to  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe, 
two  beneath  the  great  archway  on  the  Eaubourg,  where 
the  carriages  pass  through  into  the  court-yard — where 
Hermani  was  assassinated — where  the  people  carried  in 
the  bodies  of  those  historic  five,  whose  mutilated  corpses 
were  photographed  and  hawked  all  through  eastern 
Europe.  The  third  is  a  side  door,  used  more  generally 
by  habitues  of  the  restaurant.  It  was  to  this  third  door 
that  Wanda  drove  the  next  morning.  She  knew  the 
porter  there.  He  was  in  those  days  a  man  with  a  his- 
tory, and  Wanda  was  not  ignorant  of  it. 

"  Miss  Cahere — ^the  American  lady  ?"  she  said.  And 
the  porter  gave  her  the  number  of  ^Netty's  room.  He 
was  too  busy  a  man  to  offer  to  escort  her  thither. 

Wanda  mounted  the  stairs  along  the  huge  corridor. 
She  passed  l^etty's  room,  and  ascended  to  the  second 
story.  All  fell  out  as  she  had  wished.  At  the  head 
of  the  second  staircase  there  is  a  little  glass-par- 
titioned room,  where  the  servants  sit  when  they  are 
unemployed.  In  this  room,  reading  a  French  news- 
paper, she  found  Paul  Deulin's  servant,  a  well-trained 
person.  And  a  well-trained  French  servant  is  the  best 
servant  in  the  world.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  Wan- 
da had  come  to  see  his  master,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
spacious  drawing-room  occupied  by  Deulin,  who  al- 
ways travelled  en  prince. 

"  I  am  given  for  my  expenses  more  money  than  I  can 
spend,"  he  said,  in  defence  of  his  extravagant  habits, 

134 


A     TALE     HALF    TOLD 


i( 


and  the  only  people  to  whom  I  want  to  give  it  are 
those  who  will  not  accept  it." 

Deulin  was  not  in  the  room,  but  he  came  in  almost 
as  soon  as  Wanda  had  fonnd  a  chair.  She  was  looking 
at  a  book,  and  did  not  catch  the  flash  of  surprise  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Did  Jean  show  you  in  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  all  right.  He  will  keep  everybody  else  out. 
And  he  Avill  lie.  It  would  not  do,  you  know,  for  you  to 
be  talked  about.  We  all  have  enemies,  Wanda.  Even 
plain  people  have  enemies."  ,    ,  .,^ 

Wanda  waFted'for'hiiii'io-ask  her  why  she  had  come.- 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  glancing  at  her  and  drawing  a  chair 
up  to  the  table  near  which  she  was  sitting.  "  Yes ! 
What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  An  unfortunate  incident,"  answered  Wanda,  "  that 
is  all." 

"  Good.  Life  is  an  unfortunate  incident  if  we  come 
to  that.  I  hope  I  predicted  it.  It  is  so  consoling 
to  have  predicted  misfortune  when  it  comes.  Your 
father  ?" 

"  1^0." 

"  Martin  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Cartoner,"  said  Deulin,  dropping  his  voice  half  a 
dozen  tones,  and  leaning  both  elbows  on  the  table  in  a 
final  way,  which  dispensed  with  the  necessity  of  reply, 

"  Allons.     What  has  Cartoner  been  doing  ?" 

"  He  has  found  out  something." 

"  Oh,  la !  la !"  exclaimed  Deulin,  in  a  whisper — 
giving  voice  to  that  exclamation  which,  as  the  cultured 
reader  knows,  Freuich  people  reserve  for  a  really  serious 
mishap.     "  I  should  have  thought  he  knew  better." 

135 


THE    V  U  L  T  U  E  E  S 


(( 


And  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is." 

"  And  I  cannot  guess.  I  never  find  out  things,  and 
know  nothing.  An  ignorant  Frenchman,  you  know, 
ignores  more  than  any  other  man." 

"  It  came  to  Martin's  knowledge/'  explained  Wanda, 
looking  at  him  across  the  table,  with  frank  eyes.  But 
Deulin  did  not  meet  her  eves.  "  Look  a  man  in  the 
eves  when  vou  tell  him  a  lie,"  Deulin  had  once  said  to 
Cartoner,  "  but  not  a  woman." 

"  It  came  to  Martin's  knowledge  by  chance,  and  he 
says  that — "  Wanda  paused,  drew  in  her  lips,  and 
looked  round  the  room  in  an  odd,  hurried  way — "  that 
it  is  not  safe  for  Mr.  Cartoner  to  remain  any  longer  in 
Warsaw,  or  even  in  Poland.  Mr.  Cartoner  was  very 
kind  to  us  in  London.  We  all  like  him.  Martin  cannot, 
of  course,  say  anything  for  him.     My  father  won't — " 

Deulin  was  playing  a  gay  little  air  with  his  fingers 
on  the  table.  His  touch  was  staccato,  and  he  appeared 
to  be  taking  some  pride  in  his  execution. 

"  Years  ago,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  once  took 
it  upon  myself  to  advise  Cartoner.  He  was  quite  a 
young  man.  He  listened  to  my  advice  with  exemplary 
patience,  and  then  acted  in  direct  contradiction  to  it — 
and  never  explained.  He  is  shockingly  bad  at  explana- 
tion.   And  he  was  right,  and  I  was  wrong." 

He  finished  his  gay  little  air  with  an  imaginary 
chord,  played  with  both  hands. 

"  Voila !"  he  said.     "  I  can  do  nothing,  fair  prin- 


cess." 


"  But  surely  you  will  not  stand  idle  and  watch  a 
man  throw  away  his  life,"  said  Wanda,  looking  at  him 
in  surprise. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  for  a  moment,  and  they 
were  startlingly  serious.    They  were  dark  eyes,  beneath 

136 


A    TALE    HALF    TOLD 

gray  lashes.  The  whole  man  was  neat  and  gray  and — 
shallow,  as  some  thought. 

"  My  dear  Wanda,"  he  said,  "  for  forty  years  and 
more  I  have  watched  men — and  women — do  worse  than 
throw  their  lives  away.  And  it  has  quite  ceased  to  af- 
fect my  appetite." 

Wanda  rose  from  her  chair,  and  Deulin's  face 
changed  again.  He  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  her  and 
bit  his  lip.    His  eyes  were  keen  enough  now. 

"  Listen !"  he  said,  as  he  followed  her  to  the  door. 
"  I  will  give  him  a  little  hint — the  merest  ghost  of  a 
hint— will  that  do  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Wanda,  going  more  slowly  tow- 
ards the  door. 

"  Though  I  do  not  know  why  we  should,  any  of  us, 
trouble  about  this  Englishman." 

Wanda  quickened  her  pace  a  little,  and  made  no 
answer. 

"  There  are  reasons  why  I  should  not  accompany 
you,"  said  Deulin,  opening  the  door.  "  Try  the  right- 
hand  staircase,  and  the  other  way  round." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  stood  looking  at 
the  chair  which  Wanda  had  just  vacated. 

"  Only  the  third  woman  who  knows  what  she  wants," 
he  said,  "  and  yet  I  have  known  thousands — thou- 
sands." 


XVI 


MUCH— OR  NOTHING 


we  contemplate  our  neighbor's  life 
with  that  calm  indifference  to  his  good 
or  ill  which  is  the  only  true  philosophy, 
it  will  become  apparent  that  the  gods 
amuse  themselves  with  men  as  children 
amuse  themselves  with  toys.  Most  lives 
are  marked  by  a  series  of  events,  a  long  roll  of  monot- 
onous years,  and  perhaps  another  series  of  events.  In 
some  the  monotonous  years  come  first,  while  others  have 
a  long  breathing  space  of  quiet  remembrance  before 
they  go  hence  and  are  no  more  seen. 

A  child  will  take  a  fly  and  introduce  him  to  the  sugar- 
basin.  He  will  then  pull  off  his  wings  in  order  to  see 
what  he  will  do  without  them.  The  fly  wanders  round 
beneath  the  sugar-basin,  his  small  mind  absorbed  in  a 
somewhat  justifiable  surprise,  and  then  the  child  loses 
all  interest  in  him.     Thus  the  gods — with  men. 

Cartoner  was  beginning  to  experience  this  numb 
surprise.  His  life,  set  down  as  a  series  of  events, 
Vvould  have  made  what  the  world  considers  good  read- 
ing nowadays.  It  would  have  illustrated  to  perfec- 
tion ;  for  it  had  been  full  of  incident,  and  Cartoner  had 
acted  in  these  incidents — as  the  hero  of  the  serial  sen- 
sational novel  plays  his  monthly  part — with  a  mechan- 
ical energy  calling  into  activity  only  one-half  of  his 

138 


MUCH— OK    NOTHING 

being.  He  had  always  known  what  he  wanted,  and 
had  usually  accomplished  his  desires  with  the  subtrac- 
tion of  that  discount  w^hich  is  necessary  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  all  human  wishes.  The  gods  had  not 
helped  him ;  but  they  had  left  him  alone,  which  is  quite 
as  good,  and  often  better.  And  in  human  aid  this  ap- 
plies as  well,  w^hich  that  domestic  goddess,  the  managing 
female  of  the  family,  would  do  well  to  remember. 

The  gods  had  hitherto  not  been  interested  in  Car- 
toner,  and,  like  the  fly  on  the  nursery  window  that  has 
escaped  notice,  he  had  been  allowed  to  crawl  about  and 
make  his  own  small  life,  with  the  result  that  he  had 
never  found  the  sugar-basin  and  had  retained  his  wings. 
But  now,  without  apparent  reason,  that  which  is  called 
fate  had  suddenly  accorded  him  that  gracious  and 
inconsequent  attention  which  has  forever  decided  the 
sex  of  this  arbiter  of  human  story. 

Cartoner  still  knew  what  he  wanted,  and  avoided  the 
common  error  of  wanting  too  much.  For  the  present 
he  was  content  with  the  desire  to  avoid  the  Princess 
Wanda  Bukaty.  And  this  he  was  not  allowed  to  do. 
Two  days  after  the  meeting  at  the  Mokotow — the 
morning  following  the  visit  paid  by  Wanda  to  the 
Hotel  de  I'Europe  —  Cartoner  was  early  astir.  He 
drove  to  the  railway  station  in  time  to  catch  the  half- 
past  eight  train,  and  knowing  the  ways  of  the  country, 
he  took  care  to  arrive  at  ten  minutes  past  eight.  He 
took  his  ticket  amid  a  crowd  of  peasants — wild-looking 
men  in  long  coats  and  high  boots,  rough  women  in  gay 
shades  of  red,  in  short  skirts  and  toj)-boots,  like  their 
husbands. 

This  was  not  a  fashionable  train,  nor  a  through 
train  to  one  of  the  capitals.  A  religious  fete  at  a  vil- 
lage some  miles  out  of  Warsaw  attracted  the  devout 

139 


THE    VULTURES 

from  all  parts,  and  the  devout  are  usually  the  humble 
in  Roman  Catholic  countries.  Railways  are  still  con- 
ducted in  some  parts  of  Europe  on  the  prison  system, 
and  Cartoner,  glancing  into  the  third-class  waiting- 
room,  saw  that  it  was  thronged.  The  second-class  room 
was  a  little  emptier,  and  beyond  it  the  sacred  green- 
tinted  shades  of  the  first-class  waiting-room  promised 
solitude.  He  went  in  alone.  There  was  one  person 
in  the  bare  room,  who  rose  as  he  came  in.  It  was  Wan- 
da.   The  gods  were  kind — or  cruel, 

"  You  are  going  away  ?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  un- 
guardedly glad  that  Cartoner  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 
"  You  have  seen  Monsieur  Deulin,  and  you  are  going 
away." 

"  J^o,  I  have  not  seen  Deulin  since  the  races.  He 
came  to  my  rooms  yesterday,  but  I  was  out.  My  rooms 
are  watched,  and  he  did  not  come  again." 

"  We  are  all  watched,"  said  Wanda,  with  a  short 
and  careless  laugh.  "  But  you  are  going  away — that 
is  all  that  matters." 

"  I  am  not  going  away.  I  am  only  going  across  the 
frontier,  and  shall  be  back  this  afternoon." 

Wanda  turned  and  looked  towards  the  door.  They 
were  alone  in  the  room,  which  was  a  vast  one.  If 
there  were  any  other  first-class  passengers,  they  were 
waiting  the  arrival  of  the  train  from  Lemberg  in  the 
restaurant,  which  is  the  more  usual  way  of  gaining 
access  to  the  platform.  She  probably  guessed  that  he 
was  going  across  the  frontier  to  post  a  letter. 

"  You  must  leave  Warsaw,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  not 
safe  for  you  to  stay  here.  You  have  by  accident  ac- 
quired some  knowledge  which  renders  it  imperative 
for  you  to  go  away.  Your  life,  you  understand,  is  in 
danger." 

140, 


MUCH— OR    NOTHING 

She  kept  her  ejes  on  the  door  as  she  spoke.  The 
ticket  -  collector  on  duty  at  the  entrance  of  the  two 
waiting  -  rooms  was  a  long  way  off,  and  could  not 
hear  them  even  if  he  understood  English,  which  was 
improbable.  There  were  so  many  otl  3r  languages  at 
this  meeting-place  of  East  and  West  which  it  was  es- 
sential for  him  to  comprehend.  The  room  was  ab- 
solutely bare ;  not  so  much  as  a  dog  could  be  concealed 
in  it.  If  these  two  had  anything  to  say  to  each  other 
this  was  assuredly  the  moment,  and  this  bare  railway 
station  the  place  to  say  it  in. 

Cartoner  did  not  laugh  at  the  mention  of  danger,  or 
shrug  his  shoulders.  He  was  too  familiar  with  it, 
perhaps,  to  accord  it  this  conventional  salutation. 

"  Martin  would  have  warned  you,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  he  did  not  dare  to.  Besides,  he  thought  that  you 
knew  something  of  the  danger  into  which  you  had  un- 
wittingly run." 

"  Not  unwittingly,"  said  Cartoner,  and  Wanda  turn- 
ed to  look  at  him.  He  said  so  little  that  his  meaning 
needed  careful  search. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  much — "  she  began,  and  he  inter- 
rupted her  at  once. 

"  Stop,"  he  said,  "  you  must  tell  me  nothing.  It 
was  not  unwitting,  I  am  here  for  a  purpose.  I  am 
here  to  learn  everything — but  not  from  you." 

"  Martin  hinted  at  that,"  said  Wanda,  slowly,  "  but 
I  did  not  believe  him." 

And  she  looked  at  Cartoner  with  a  sort  of  wonder 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  as  if  there  were  more  in  him — ■ 
more  of  him — than  she  had  ever  expected.  And  he  re- 
turned her  glance  with  a  simplicity  and  directness 
which  were  baffling  enough.  He  looked  down  at  her. 
He  was  taller  than  she,  which  was  as  it  should  be.    For 

.141 


THE    VULTUEES 

half  the  trouble  of  this  troubled  world  comes  from  the 
fact  that,  for  one  reason  or  another,  women  are  not 
always  able  to  look  up  to  the  men  with  whom  they  have 
dealings. 

"  It  is  true  enough,"  he  said,  "  fate  has  made  us 
enemies,  princess." 

"  You  said  that  even  the  Czar  could  not  do  that.  And 
he  is  stronger  than  fate — in  Poland.     Besides — " 

"  Yes." 

"  You,  who  say  so  little,  were  indiscreet  enough  to 
confide  something  in  your  enemy.  You  told  me  you 
had  written  for  your  recall." 

And  again  her  eyes  brightened,  with  an  anticipating 
gleam  of  relief. 

"  It  has  been  refused." 

"  But  you  must  go — you  must  go !"  she  said,  quickly. 
She  glanced  at  the  great  clock  upon  the  wall.  She  had 
only  ten  minutes  in  which  to  make  him  understand. 
He  was  an  eminently  sensible  person.  There  were 
gleams  of  gray  in  his  closely  cut  hair. 

"  You  must  not  think  that  we  are  alarmists.  If  there 
is  any  family  in  the  world  who  knows  what  it  is  to  live 
peaceably,  happily — quite  gayly — "  she  broke  off  with 
a  light  laugh,  "  on  a  volcano — it  is  the  Bukatys.  We 
have  all  been  brought  up  to  it.  Martin  and  I  looked 
out  of  our  nursery  window  on  April  8,  1861,  and  saw 
what  was  done  on  that  day.  My  father  was  in  the 
streets.  And  ever  since  we  have  been  accustomed  to 
unsettled  times." 

"  I  know,"  said  Cartoner,  "  what  it  is  to  be  a  Bu- 
katy."  And  he  smiled  slowly  as  she  looked  at  him  with 
gray,  fearless  eyes.  Then  suddenly  her  manner,  in  a 
flash,  was  different. 

"  Then  you  will  go  ?"  she  pleaded,  softly,  persuasive- 

142 


MUCH  — OR   :nothikg 

Ij.  And  when  he  tnrned  away  his  eyes  from  hers,  as 
if  he  did  not  care  to  meet  them,  she  glanced  again, 
hnrriedly,  at  the  clock.  There  is  a  cunning  bred  of 
hatred,  and  there  is  another  cunning,  much  deeper. 
"  Say  you  will  go !" 

And,  sternly  economical  of  words,  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  understand,"  she  went  on, 
changing  her  manner  and  her  ground  again.  And  to 
each  attack  he  could  only  oppose  his  own  stolid,  dumb 
form  of  defence.  "  You  do  not  understand  what  a 
danger  to  us  your  presence  here  is.  It  is  needless  to  tell 
you  all  this,"  with  a  gesture  she  indicated  the  well- 
ordered  railway  station,  the  hundred  marks  of  a  high 
state  of  civilization,  "  is  skin  deep.  That  things  in 
Poland  are  not  at  all  what  they  seem.  And,  of  course, 
we  are  implicated.  We  live  from  day  to  day  in  un- 
certainty. And  my  father  is  such  an  old  man;  he  has 
had  such  a  hopeless  struggle  all  his  life.  You  have 
only  to  look  at  his  face — " 

"  I  know,"  admitted  Cartoner. 

"  It  would  be  very  hard  if  anything  should  happen 
to  him  now,  after  he  has  gone  through  so  much.  And 
Martin,  who  is  so  young  in  mind,  and  so  happy  and 
reckless !  He  would  be  such  an  easy  prey  for  a  political 
foe.     That  is  why  I  ask  you  to  go." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  answered  Cartoner,  who,  like  many 
people  reputed  clever,  was  quite  a  simple  person. 

"  Besides,"  said  Wanda,  with  that  logic  which  men, 
not  having  the  wit  to  follow  it,  call  no  logic  at  all, 
"  you  can  do  no  good  here,  if  all  your  care  and  atten- 
tion are  required  for  the  preservation  of  your  life. 
Why  have  they  refused  your  recall  ?    It  is  so  stupid." 

"  I  must  do  the  best  I  can,"  replied  Cartoner. 

Wanda    shrugged    her    shoulders    impatiently,    and 

143 


THE    yULTURES 

tapped  with'  her  foot  on  the  ground.     Then  suddenly 
her  manner  changed  again. 

"  But  we  must  not  quarrel,"  she  said,  gently.  "  We 
must  not  misunderstand  each  other,"  she  added,  with 
a  quick  and  uneasy  laugh,  "  for  we  have  only  five  min- 
utes in  all  the  world." 

"  Here  and  now,"  he  corrected,  with  a  glance  at  the 
clock,  "  we  have  only  five  minutes.  But  the  world  is 
large." 

"  For  you,"  she  said,  quickly,  "  but  not  for  me.  My 
world  is  Warsaw.  You  forget  I  am  a  Russian  sub- 
ject." 

But  he  had  not  forgotten  it,  as  she  could  see  by  the 
sudden  hardening  of  his  face. 

"  My  presence  in  Warsaw,"  he  said,  as  if  the  train 
of  thought  needed  no  elucidating,  "  is  in  reality  no 
source  of  danger  to  you — to  your  father  and  brother,  I 
mean.  Indeed,  I  might  be  of  some  use.  I  or  Deulin. 
Do  not  misunderstand  my  position.  I  am  of  no  polit- 
ical importance.  I  am  nobody — nothing  but  a  sort  of 
machine  that  has  to  report  upon  events  that  are  past. 
It  is  not  my  business  to  prevent  events  or  to  make  his- 
tory. I  merely  record.  If  I  choose  to  be  prepared  for 
that  which  may  come  to  pass,  that  is  merely  my  method 
of  preparing  my  report.  If  nothing  happens  I  report 
nothing.  I  have  not  to  say  what  might  have  happened 
— life  is  too  short  to  record  that.  So  you  see  my  being 
in  Warsaw  is  really  of  no  danger  to  your  father  and 
brother." 

"  Yes,  I  see — I  see !"  answered  Wanda.  She  had 
only  three  minutes  now.  The  door  giving  access  to  the 
platform  had  long  been  thrown  open.  The  guard,  in 
his  fine  military  uniform  and  shining  top-boots,  was 
strutting  the  length  of  the  train.     "  But  it  was  not  on 

144 


MUCH— OR    NOTHING 

account  of  that  that  we  asked  Monsieur  Deulin  to  warn 
you.  It  does  not  matter  about  my  father  and  Martin. 
It  is  required  of  them — a  sort  of  family  tradition.  It 
is  their  business  in  life — almost  their  pleasure." 

"  It  is  my  business  in  life — almost  my  pleasure/* 
said  Cartoner,  with  a  smile. 

"  But  is  there  no  one  at  home — in  England — that 
you  ought  to  think  of  ?"  in  an  odd,  sharp  voice. 

"  Nobody,"  he  replied,  in  one  word,  for  he  was  chary 
with  information  respecting  himself. 

Wanda  had  walked  towards  the  platform.  Immedi- 
ately opposite  to  her  stood  a  carriage  with  the  door 
thrown  open.  In  those  days  there  were  no  corridor 
carriages.     Two  minutes  now. 

"  We  must  not  be  seen  together  on  the  platform," 
she  said.  "  I  am  only  going  to  the  next  station.  We 
have  a  small  farm  there,  and  some  old  servants  whom 
I  go  to  see." 

She  stood  within  the  open  doorway,  and  seemed  to 
wait  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  for  warning  me." 

And  that  was  all. 

"  You  must  go,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

Still  she  lingered. 

"  There  is  so  much  to  say,"  she  said,  half  to  herself. 
"  There  is  so  much  to  say." 

The  train  was  moving  when  Cartoner  stepped  into 
a  carriage  at  the  back.  He  was  alone,  and  he  leaned 
back  with  a  look  of  thoughtful  wonder  in  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  were  questioning  whether  she  were  right — whether 
there  was  much  to  say — or  nothing. 
^»  145 


XYII 

IN  THE  SENATORSKA 

\T  is,"  said  Miss  Julie  Mangles,  "  in 
the     Franciszkanska     that     one     lays 
one's  hand  on  the  true  heart  of  the 
I  people." 

"  That's  as  may  be,  Jooly,"  replied 
'  her  brother,   "  but  I  take  it  that  the 
hearts  of  the  women  go  to  the  Senatorska." 

For  Miss  Mangles,  on  the  advice  of  a  polyglot  con- 
cierge, had  walked  down  the  length  of  that  silent  street, 
the  Franciszkanska,  where  the  Jews  ply  their  myste- 
rious trades  and  where  every  shutter  is  painted  with 
bright  images  of  the  wares  sold  within  the  house.  The 
street  is  a  picture-gallery  of  the  human  requirements. 
The  chosen  people  hurry  to  and  fro  with  curved  backs 
and  patient,  suffering  faces  that  bear  the  mark  of 
eighteen  hundred  years  of  persecution.  ]S[o  Christian 
would  assuredly  be  a  Jew ;  and  no  Jew  would  be  a  Po- 
lish Jew  if  he  could  possibly  help  it.  For  a  Polish 
Jew  must  not  leave  the  country,  may  not  even  quit  his 
native  town,  unless  it  suits  a  paternal  government  that 
he  should  go  elsewhere.  He  has  no  personal  liberty, 
and  mav  not  exercise  a  choice  as  to  the  clothes  that  he 
shall  wear. 

"  I  shall,"  said  Miss  Mangles,  "  write  a  paper  on  the 
Jewish  question  in  this  country." 

146 


IN    THE     SENATOESKA 

And  Joseph  changed  the  position  of  his  cigar  from 
the  left-hand  to  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  mouth, 
very  dexterously  from  within,  with  his  tongue.  He  saw 
no  reason  why  Jooly  should  not  write  a  paper  on  the 
Semitic  question  in  Russia,  and  read  it  to  a  greedy 
multitude  in  a  town-hall,  provided  that  the  town-hall 
was  sufficiently  far  West. 

"  Seen  the  Senatorska,  ISTetty  ?"  he  inquired.  But 
JiTetty  had  not  seen  the  Senatorska,  and  did  not  know 
how  to  find  it. 

"  Go  out  into  the  Faubourg,"  her  uncle  explained, 
"  and  just  turn  to  the  left  and  follow  all  the  other 
women.    It  is  the  street  where  the  shops  are." 

Two  days  later,  when  Miss  Julie  Mangles  was  writ- 
ing her  paper,  ISTetty  set  out  to  find  the  Senatorska. 
Miss  Mangles  was  just  putting  down — as  the  paper  it- 
self recorded — the  hot  impressions  of  the  moment, 
gathered  after  a  walk  down  the  Street  of  the  Accursed. 
For  they  like  their  impressions  served  hot  out  West, 
and  this  is  a  generation  that  prefers  vividness  to  ac- 
curacv. 

Netty  found  the  street  quite  easily.  It  was  a  sunny 
morning,  and  many  shoppers  were  abread.  In  a 
degree  she  followed  her  uncle's  instructions,  and  in- 
stinct did  the  rest.  For  the  Senatorska  is  not  an  easy 
street  to  find.  The  entrance  to  it  is  narrow  and  un- 
promising, like  either  end  of  Bond  Street. 

The  Senatorska  does  not  approach  Bond  Street  or 
the  Eue  de  la  Paix,  and  Netty,  who  knew  those  thor- 
oughfares, seemed  to  find  little  to  interest  her  in  the 
street  where  Stanislaus  Augustus  Poniatowski — that 
weak  dreamer — built  his  great  opera-house  and  cul- 
tivated the  ballet.  The  shops  are,  indeed,  not  worthy 
of  a  close  attention,  and  Netty  was  passing  them  in- 

14Y 


THE    VULTUKES 

differently  enough  when  suddenly  she  became  absorbed 
in  the  wares  of  a  silver-worker.  Then  she  turned,  with 
a  little  cry  of  surprise,  to  find  a  gentleman  standing 
hatless  beside  her.     It  was  the  Prince  Martin  Bukaty. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  did  not  remember  me/'  said  Mar- 
tin. "  You  looked  straight  at  me,  and  did  not  seem  to 
recognize  me." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  am  so  short-sighted,  you  know.  I  had 
not  forgotten  you.    Why  should  I  ?" 

And  l^etty  glanced  at  Martin  in  her  little,  gentle, 
appealing  way,  and  then  looked  elsewhere  rather  has- 
tily. 

"  Oh,  you  travellers  must  see  so  many  people  you  can- 
not be  expected  to  remember  every  one  who  is  intro- 
duced to  you  at  a  race-meeting." 

"  Of  course,"  said  J^etty,  looking  into  the  silver- 
smith's shop.  "  One  meets  a  great  number  of  people, 
but  not  many  that  one  likes.    Do  you  not  find  it  so  ?" 

"  I  am  glad,"  answered  Martin,  "  that  you  do  not 
meet  many  people  that  you  like." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  not  think  that  I  dislike  people," 
urged  Netty,  in  some  concern ;  "  I  should  be  very  un- 
grateful if  I  did.  Everybody  is  so  kind.  Do  you  not 
find  it  so  ?  I  hate  people  to  be  cynical.  There  is  much 
more  kindness  in  the  world  than  anybody  suspects. 
Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  has  not  come  my  way,  perhaps. 
It  naturally  would  come  in  yours." 

And  Martin  looked  down  at  her  beneath  the  pink 
shade  of  her  parasol  with  that  kindness  in  his  eyes  of 
which  l^etty  had  had  so  large  a  share. 

"  Oh  no !"  she  protested,  with  a  little  movement  of 
the  shoulders  descriptive  of  a  shrinking  humility. 
"  Why  should  I  ?     I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  it. 

148 


IK    THE    SENATOKSKA 

And  yet,  perhaps  you  are  right.  Everybody  is  so  kind 
— my  uncle  and  aunt — everybody.  I  am  very  fort- 
unate, I  am  sure.    I  wonder  why  it  is  ?" 

And  she  looked  up  inquiringly  into  Martin's  face 
as  if  he  could  tell  her,  and,  indeed,  he  looked  remark- 
ably as  if  he  could — if  he  dared.  He  had  never  met 
anybody  quite  like  Netty — so  spontaneous  and  inno- 
cent and  easy  to  get  on  with.  Conversation  with  her 
was  so  interesting  and  yet  so  little  trouble.  She  asked 
a  hundred  questions  which  were  quite  easy  to  answer; 
and  were  not  stujiid  little  questions  about  the  weather, 
but  had  a  human  interest  in  them,  especially  when  she 
looked  up  like  that  from  under  her  parasol,  and  there 
was  a  pink  glow  on  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  dark, 
almost  as  violets. 

"  Ought  I  to  be  here  ?"  she  asked.  "  Going  about 
the  streets  alone,  I  mean  V 

"  You  are  not  alone,"  answered  Martin,  with  a  laugh. 

"  E'o,  but — perhaps  I  ought  to  be." 

And  Martin,  looking  down,  saw  nothing  but  the  top 
of  the  pink  parasol. 

"  In  America,  you  know,"  said  the  voice  from  under 
the  parasol,  "  girls  are  allowed  to  do  so  much  more 
than  in  Europe.  And  it  is  always  best  to  be  careful, 
is  it  not? — to  follow  the  customs  of  the  country,  I 
mean.  In  France  and  Germany  people  are  so  par- 
ticular. I  wanted  to  ask  you  what  is  the  custom  in 
Warsaw." 

Martin  stepped  to  one  side  in  order  to  avoid  the 
parasol. 

"  In  Warsaw  you  can  do  as  you  like.  We  are  not 
French,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  resemble 
the  Germans  in  anything.  Here  every  one  goes  about 
the  streets  as  they  do  in  England  or  America." 

149 


THE     VULTUKES 

As  if  to  confirm  this,  he  walked  on  slowly,  and  she 
walked  by  his  side. 

"  I  can  show  you  the  best  shops,"  he  said,  "  such  as 
they  are.  This  is  Ulrich's,  the  flower  shop.  Those  vio- 
lets are  Russian.  The  only  good  thing  I  ever  heard  of 
that  came  from  Russia.    Do  you  like  violets  ?" 

"  I  love  them,"  answered  Ketty,  and  she  walked  on 
rather  hurriedly  to  the  next  shop. 

"  You  would  naturally." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  J^etty,  looking  with  a  curious  in- 
terest at  the  packets  of  tea  in  the  Russian  shop  next  to 
Ulrich's. 

"  Is  it  not  the  correct  thing  to  select  the  flower  that 
matches  the  eyes  ?" 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  that,"  said  ITetty,  in 
a  voice  half-afraid,  half-reproachful. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  Heaven  to  give  you  such  eyes," 
answered  Martin,  gayly.  He  was  more  and  more  sur- 
prised to  find  how  easy  it  was  to  get  on  with  ISTetty, 
whom  he  seemed  to  have  known  all  his  life.  Like 
many  lively  persons,  he  rather  liked  a  companion  to 
possess  a  vein  of  gravity,  and  this  Netty  seemed  to 
have.  He  was  sure  that  she  was  religious  and  very 
good. 

"  You  know,"  said  l^etty,  hastily,  and  ignoring  his 
remark,  "  I  am  much  interested  in  Poland.  It  is  such 
a  romantic  country.  People  have  done  such  great 
things,  have  they  not,  in  Poland  ?  I  mean  the  nobles — 
and  the  poor  peasants,  too,  in  their  small  way,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  The  nobles  have  come  to  great  grief  in  Poland — 
that  is  all,"  replied  Martin,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  And  it  is  so  sad,"  said  Netty,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head ;  "  but  I  am  sure  it  will  all  come  right  some  day. 

150 


IN    THE     SEI^TATORSKA 

Do  you  not  think  so  ?  I  am  sure  you  are  interested  in 
Poland — you  and  your  sister  and  your  father." 

'^  We  are  supposed  to  be,"  admitted  Martin.  "  But 
no  one  cares  for  Poland  now,  I  am  afraid.  The  rest  of 
the  world  has  other  things  to  think  of,  and,  in  Eng- 
land and  America,  Poland  is  forgotten  now — and  her 
history,  which  is  the  saddest  history  of  any  nation  in 
the  world." 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong  there,"  said  l^etty, 
earnestly.  "  I  know  a  great  number  of  people  who  are 
sorry  for  the  Poles  and  interested  in  them." 

"  Are  you  ?"  asked  Martin,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  downcast  eyes.  "  Come," 
she  said,  after  a  pause,  with  a  sort  of  effort,  "  we  must 
not  stand  in  front  of  this  shop  any  longer." 

"  Especially,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  as  he  followed 
her,  "  as  it  is  a  Russian  shop.  Wherever  you  see  tea 
and  articles  of  religion  mixed  up  in  a  window,  that  is 
a  Russian  shop,  and  if  you  sympathize  with  Poland 
you  will  not  go  into  it.  There  are,  on  the  other 
hand,  plenty  of  shops  in  Warsaw  where  they  will 
not  serve  Russians.  It  is  to  those  shops  that  you  must 
go." 

I^etty  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"  I  am  quite  serious,"  he  said.  "  We  must  fight  with 
what  weapons  we  have." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  indicating  the  shops,  "  these 
people,  but  not  you.  You  are  a  prince,  and  they  can- 
not touch  you.  They  would  not  dare  to  take  anything 
from  you." 

"  Because  there  is  nothing  to  take,"  laughed  Martin, 
gayly ;  "  we  were  ruined  long  ago.  They  took  every- 
thing there  was  to  take  in  1830,  when  my  father  was  a 
boy.    He  could  not  work  for  his  living,  and  I  may  not 

151 


THE     VULTURES 

either ;  so  I  am  a  prince  without  a  halfpenny  to  call  his 
own.'* 

"  I  am  so  sorry!"  she  said,  in  a  soft  voice,  and,  in- 
deed, she  looked  it. 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  Paul  Deulin  a  long  way  off, 
despite  her  short  sight,  which  was  perhaps  spasmodic, 
as  short  sight  often  is.  She  stopped,  and  half  turned, 
as  if  to  dismiss  Martin.  When  Deulin  perceived  them 
he  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  pavement,  as  if 
they  had  just  met.  He  came  up  with  a  bow  to  I^etty 
and  his  hand  stretched  out  to  Martin — his  left  hand, 
which  conveyed  the  fact  that  he  was  an  old  and  fa- 
miliar friend. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  on  your  way  back  to  the  Europe 
to  lunch  ?"  he  said  to  !N"etty.  "  I  am  in  luck.  I  have 
come  just  in  time  to  walk  back  with  you,  if  you  will 
permit  it." 

And  he  did  not  wait  for  the  permission,  but  walked 
on  beside  Netty,  while  Martin  took  off  his  hat  and  went 
in  the  opposite  direction.  It  was  not  the  way  he  wanted 
to  go,  but  something  had  made  him  think  that  Netty 
desired  him  to  go,  and  he  departed  with  a  pleasant  sen- 
sation as  of  a  secret  possessed  in  common  with  her.  He 
walked  back  quickly  to  the  flower-shop  kept  by  Ulrich, 
in  the  Senatorska. 

A  rare  thing  happened  to  Paul  Deulin  at  this  mo- 
ment. He  fell  into  a  train  of  thought,  and  walked  some 
distance  by  the  side  of  Netty  without  speaking.  It  was 
against  his  principles  altogether.  "  Never  be  silent 
with  a  woman,"  he  often  said.  "  She  will  only  mis- 
construe it." 

"  It  was  odd  that  I  should  meet  you  at  that  moment," 
he  said,  at  length,  for  Netty  had  not  attempted  to  break 
the  silence.     She  never  took  the  initiative  with  Paul 

152 


IN     THE     SENATOKSKA 

Deulin,  but  followed  quite  humbly  and  submissively 
the  conversational  lead  which  he  might  choose  to  give. 
Pie  broke  off  and  laughed.  "  I  was  going  to  say  that  it 
was  odd  that  I  should  have  met  you  at  a  moment  that 
I  was  thinking  of  you ;  but  it  would  be  odder  still  if 
I  could  manage  to  meet  you  at  a  moment  when  I  was 
not  thinking  of  you,  would  it  not  ?" 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Ketty,  "  to  think  of 
me  at  the  race-meeting  the  other  day,  and  to  introduce 
me  to  the  Bukatys.  I  am  so  interested  in  the  princess. 
She  is  so  pretty,  is  she  not?  Such  lovely  hair,  and  I 
think  her  face  is  so  interesting — a  face  with  a  history, 
is  it  not?"  . 

"  Yes,"  answered  Deulin,  rather  shortly,  "  Wanda  in 
a  nice  girl."  He  did  not  seem  to  find  the  subject  pleas- 
ing, and  ISTetty  changed  her  ground. 

"  And  the  prince,"  she  said,  "  the  old  one,  I  mean — 
for  this  one.  Prince  Martin,  is  quite  a  boy,  is  he  not  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — quite  a  boy,"  replied  Deulin,  absently, 
as  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  Martin 
hurry  into  the  flower-shop  where  lie  had  first  perceived 
Ketty  and  the  young  prince  talking  together. 

"  It  is  so  sad  that  they  are  ruined — if  they  are  really 
ruined." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  about  that,"  answered 
Deulin. 

"  But,"  said  ISTetty,  who  was  practical,  "  could  noth- 
ing induce  him — the  young  prince,  I  mean — to  aban- 
don all  these  vagTie  political  dreams  and  accept  the 
situation  as  it  is,  and  settle  down  to  develop  his  estates 
and  recover  his  position  ?" 

"  You  mean,"  said  Deulin,  "  the  domestic  felicities. 
Your  kind  and  sympathetic  heart  would  naturally 
think  of  that.     You  go  about  the  world  like  an  unem- 

153 


THE     VULTUKES 

ployed  and  wandering  angel,  seeking  to  make  the  lives 
of  others  happier.  Those  are  dreams,  and  in  Poland 
dreams  are  forbidden — by  the  Czar.  Bnt  they  are  the 
privilege  of  youth,  and  I  like  to  catch  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  yonr  gentle  dreams,  my  dear  young  lady." 

l!^etty  smiled  a  little  pathetically,  and  glanced  up  at 
him  beneath  her  lashes,  which  were  dark  as  lashes 
should  be  that  veil  violet  eyes. 

"  Now  you  are  laughing  at  me,  because  I  am  not 
clever,"  she  said. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  But  I  am  laughing  at  your  dream 
for  Martin  Bukaty.  He  will  never  come  to  what  you 
suggest  as  the  cure  for  his  unsatisfactory  life.  He  has 
too  much  history  behind  him,  which  is  a  state  of  things 
never  quite  understood  in  your  country,  mademoiselle. 
Moreover,  he  has  not  got  it  in  him.  He  is  not  stable 
enough  for  the  domestic  felicities,  and  Siberia  —  his 
certain  destination  —  is  not  a  good  mise-en-scene  for 
your  dream.  'No,  you  must  not  hope  to  do  good  to 
your  fellow-beings  here,  though  it  is  natural  that  you 
should  seek  the  ever-evasive  remedy — another  privilege 
of  youth." 

"  You  talk  as  if  you  were  so  very  old,"  said  ISTetty, 
reproachfully. 

"  I  am  very,  very  old,"  he  replied,  with  a  laugh, 
"  And  there  is  no  remedy  for  that.  Even  your  kind 
heart  can  supply  no  cure  for  old  age." 

"  I  reserve  my  charity  and  my  cures  for  really  de- 
serving cases,"  answered  Netty,  lightly.  "  I  think  you 
are  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  yourself." 

"  And  of  evolving  my  own  dreams  ?"  he  inquired. 
But  she  made  no  answer,  and  did  not  appear  to  notice 
the  glance  of  his  tired,  dark  eyes. 

"  I  know  so  little,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  so  very 

154 


11^     THE     SEKATORSKA 

little  of  Poland  or  Polish  history.  I  suppose  you  know 
everything — you  and  Mr.  Cartoner?" 

"  Oh,  Cartoner !  Yes,  he  knows  a  great  deal.  He  is 
a  regular  magazine  of  knowledge,  while  I — I  am  only 
a  little  stall  in  Vanity  Fair,  with  everything  displayed 
to  the  best  advantage  in  the  sunshine.  ISTow,  there  is 
a  life  for  you  to  exercise  your  charity  upon.  He  is 
brilliantly  successful,  and  yet  there  is  something  want- 
ing in  his  life.    Can  you  not  prescribe  for  him  ?" 

ISTetty  smiled  gravely. 

"  I  hardly  know  him  sufficiently  well,"  she  said. 
"  Besides,  he  requires  no  sympathy  if  it  is  true  that  he 
is  the  heir  to  a  baronetcy  and  a  fortune." 

Deulin's  eyebrows  went  up  into  his  hat,  and  he  made, 
for  his  own  satisfaction,  a  little  grimace  of  surprise. 

"Ah!  is  that  so?"  he  inquired.  "Who  told  you 
that?" 

But  ISTetty  could  not  remember  where  she  had  heard 
what  she  was  ready  to  believe  was  a  mere  piece  of  gos- 
sip. Neither  did  she  appear  to  be  very  interested  in 
the  matter. 


XYIII 

JOSEPH'S   STOEY 

p.  MAIsTGLES  gave  a  dinner-party  the 
same  evening.  "  It  is  well,"  he  had 
said,  "  to  show  the  nations  that  the 
great  powers  are  in  perfect  harmony." 
He  made  this  remark  to  Deulin  and 
Cartoner,  whom  he  met  at  the  Cukier- 
nia  Lourse — a  large  confectioner's  shop  and  tea-honse 
in  the  Cracow  Faubourg — which  is  the  principal  cafe  in 
Warsaw.  And  he  then  and  there  had  arranged  that 
they  should  dine  with  him. 

"  I  always  accept  the  good  Mangles'  invitations. 
Firstly,  I  am  in  love  with  Miss  Cahere.  Secondly, 
Julie  P.  Mangles  amuses  me  consumedly.  In  her  pres- 
ence I  am  dumb.  My  breath  is  taken  away.  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  But  afterwards,  in  the  night,  I  wake 
up  and  laugh  into  my  pillow.  It  takes  years  off  one's 
life,"  said  Deulin,  confidentially,  to  Cartoner,  as  they 
sipped  their  tea  when  Mr.  Joseph  P.  Mangles  had  de- 
parted. 

As  Deulin  vras  staying  under  the  same  roof,  he  had 
only  to  descend  from  the  second  to  the  first  floor,  when 
the  clock  struck  seven.  By  some  chance  he  was  dressed 
in  good  time,  and  being  an  idle  person,  with  a  Gallic 
love  of  street-life,  he  drew  back  his  curtain,  and  stood 
at  the  window  waiting  for  the  clock  to  strike, 

156 


JOSEPH'S     STORY 

"  I  shall  perhaps  see  the  heir  to  the  baronetcy  ar- 
rive," he  said  to  himself,  "  and  we  can  make  our  entree 
together." 

It  happened  that  he  did  see  Cartoner ;  for  the  square 
below  the  windows  was  well  lighted.  He  saw  Cartoner 
tnrn  out  of  the  Cracow  Faubourg  into  the  square, 
where  innumerable  droskies  stand.  He  saw,  more- 
over, a  man  arrive  at  the  corner  immediately  after- 
wards, as  if  he  had  been  following  Cartoner,  and, 
standing  there,  watch  him  pass  into  the  side  door  of 
the  hotel. 

Deulin  reflected  for  a  moment.  Then  he  went  into 
his  bedroom,  and  took  his  coat  and  hat  and  stick.  He 
hurried  down-stairs  with  them,  and  gave  them  into  the 
care  of  the  porter  at  the  side  door,  whose  business  it  is 
to  take  charge  of  the  effects  of  the  numerous  diners 
in  the  restaurant.  When  he  entered  the  Mangles' 
drawing-room  a  few  minutes  later  he  found  the  party 
assembled  there.  Netty  was  dressed  in  white,  with 
some  violets  at  her  waistband.  She  was  listening  to 
her  aunt  and  Cartoner,  who  were  talking  together,  and 
Deulin  found  himself  relegated  to  the  society  of  the 
hospitable  Joseph  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  You're  looking  at  Cartoner  as  if  he  owed  you 
money,"  said  Mr.  Mangles,  bluntly. 

"  I  was  looking  at  him  with  suspicion,"  admitted 
Deulin,  "  but  not  on  that  account,  l^o  one  owes  me 
money.  It  is  the  other  way  round,  and  it  is  not  I  who 
need  to  be  anxious,  but  the  other  party,  you  understand. 
IsTo,  I  was  looking  at  our  friend  because  I  thought  he 
was  lively.  Did  he  strike  you  as  lively  when  he  came 
in?" 

"  l^ot  what  I  should  call  a  vivacious  man,"  said 
Mangles,  looking  dismally  across  the  room.      "  There 

157 


THE    yULTUKES 

was  a  sort  of  ripple  on  his  serene  calm  as  he  came  in 
perhaps." 

"  Yes,"  said  Deulin,  in  a  low  voice.  "  That  is  bad. 
There  is  usually  something  wrong  when  Cartoner  is 
lively.     He  is  making  an  eifort,  you  know." 

They  went  towards  the  others,  Deulin  leading  the 
way. 

"  What  beautiful  violets,"  said  he  to  I^etty.  "  Sure- 
ly Warsaw  did  not  produce  those?" 

"  Yes,  they  are  pretty,"  answered  ISTetty,  making  a 
little  movement  to  show  the  flowers  to  greater  ad- 
vantage to  Deulin  and  to  Cartoner  also.  Her  waist 
was  very  round  and  slender.  ''  They  came  from  that 
shop  in  the  Senatorska  or  tlie  Wirzbowa,  I  for- 
get, quite,  which  street.  Ulrich,  I  think,  was  the 
name." 

And  she  apparently  desired  to  let  the  subject  drop 
there. 

"  Yes,"  said  Deulin,  slowly,  "  Ulrich  is  the  name. 
And  you  are  fond  of  violets  ?" 

"  I  love  them." 

Deulin  was  making  a  silent,  mental  note  of  the 
harmless  taste,  when  dinner  was  announced. 

"  It  was  I  who  recommended  l^etty  to  investigate  the 
Senatorska,"  said  Mr.  Mangles,  when  they  were  seated. 
But  ISTetty  did  not  wish  to  be  made  the  subject  of  the 
conversation  any  longer.  She  was  telling  Cartoner, 
who  sat  next  to  her,  a  gay  little  story,  connected  with 
some  piece  of  steamer  gossip  known  only  to  himself  and 
her.  Is  it  not  an  accepted  theory  that  quiet  men  like 
best  those  girls  who  are  lively  ? 

Miss  Mangles  dispensed  her  brother's  hospitality  with 
that  rather  labored  ease  of  manner  to  which  superior 
women  are  liable  at  such  times  as  they  are  pleased  to 

158 


JOSEPH'S     STORY 

desire  their  inferiors  to  feel  comfortable,  and  to  enjoy 
themselves  accordins;  to  their  lio-hts. 

Deulin  perceived  the  situation  at  once,  and  sought 
information  respecting  Poland,  which  was  most  gra- 
ciously accorded  him. 

"  And  you  have  actually  walked  through  the  Jewish 
quarter  ?"  he  said,  noting,  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  that 
Cartoner  was  absent-minded. 

"  I  entered  the  Franciszkanska  near  the  old  church 
of  St.  John,  and  traversed  the  whole  length  of  the 
street." 

"  And  you  have  formed  an  opinion  upon  the  Semitic 
question  in  this  country  ?"  asked  the  Frenchman, 
earnestly. 

"  I  have." 

And  Deulin  turned  to  his  salmon,  while  Miss  Man- 
gles swept  away  in  a  few  chosen  phrases  the  difficulties 
that  have  puzzled  statesmen  for  fifteen  hundred  years. 

"  I  shall  read  a  paper  upon  it  at  one  of  our  histori- 
cal Women's  Congress  meetings — and  I  may  publish," 
she  said. 

"  It  would  be  in  the  interests  of  humanity,"  mur- 
mured Deulin,  politely.  "  It  would  add  to  the  .  .  . 
wisdom  of  the  nations." 

Across  the  table  E"etty  was  doing  her  best  to  make 
her  uncle's  guest  happy,  seeking  to  please  him  in  a 
thousand  ways,  which  need  not  be  described. 

"  I  know,"  she  was  saying  at  that  moment,  in  not  too 
loud  a  voice,  "  that  you  dislike  political  women," 
Heaven  knows  how  she  knew  it.  "  But  I  am  afraid  I 
must  confess  to  taking  a  great  interest  in  Poland.  ]^ot 
the  sort  of  interest  you  would  dislike,  I  hope.  But  a 
personal  interest  in  the  people.  I  think  I  have  never 
met  people  with  quite  the  same  qualities." 

159 


THE    VULTUKES 

"  Their  chief  quality  is  gameness,"  said  Cartoner, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  and  that  is  just  what  appeals  to  English  and 
Americans.  I  think  the  princess  is  delightful — do  you 
not  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes/'  answered  Cartoner,  looking  straight  in  front 
of  him. 

"  There  must  be  a  great  many  stories,"  went  on 
ISTetty,  "  connected  with  the  story  of  the  nation,  whicli  it 
would  be  so  interesting  to  know — of  people's  lives,  I 
mean — of  all  they  have  attempted  and  have  failed  to 
do." 

Joseph  was  listening  at  his  end  of  the  table,  with 
a  kindly  smile  on  his  lined  face.  He  had,  perhaps,  a 
soft  place  in  that  cynical  and  dry  heart  for  his  niece, 
and  liked  to  hear  her  simple  talk.  Cartoner  was 
listening,  with  a  greater  attention  than  the  words  de- 
served. He  was  weighing  them  with  a  greater  nicety 
than  experienced  social  experts  are  in  the  habit  of 
exercising  over  dinner-table  talk.  And  Deulin  was 
talking  hard,  as  usual,  and  listening  at  the  same  time; 
which  is  not  by  any  means  an  easy  thing  to  do. 

"  I  always  think,"  continued  Netty,  "  that  the  prin- 
cess has  a  story.  There  must,  I  mean,  be  some  one  at 
the  mines  or  in  Siberia,  or  somewhere  terrible  like  that, 
of  whom  she  is  always  thinking." 

And  Netty's  eyes  were  quite  soft  with  a  tender  sym- 
pathy, as  she  glanced  at  Cartoner. 

"  Perhaps,"  put  in  Deulin,  hastily,  between  two  of 
Julie's  solemn  utterances.  "  Perhaps  she  is  thinking 
of  her  brother — Prince  Martin.  He  is  always  getting 
into  scrapes — ce  jeune  homme." 

But  Netty  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  mean  that 
sort  of  thought  at  all. 

160 


JOSEPH'S     STORY 

"  It  is  your  romantic  heart,"  said  Deulin,  "  that 
makes  you  see  so  much  that  perhaps  does  not  exist." 

"  If  you  want  a  story,"  put  in  Joseph  Mangles,  sud- 
denly, in  his  deep  voice,  "  I  can  tell  you  one." 

And  because  Joseph  rarely  spoke,  he  was  accorded  a 
silence. 

"  Waiter's  a  !Finn,  and  says  he  doesn't  understand 
English  ?"  began  Mangles,  looking  interrogatively  at 
Deulin,  beneath  his  great  eyebrows. 

"  Which  I  believe  to  be  the  truth,"  assented  the 
Frenchman. 

"  Cartoner  and  Deulin  probably  know  the  story," 
continued  Joseph,  "  but  they  won't  admit  that  they  do. 
There  was  once  a  nobleman  in  this  city  who  was  like 
Ketty;  he  had  a  romantic  heart.  Dreamed  that  this 
country  could  be  made  a  great  country  again,  as  it  was 
in  the  past — dreamed  that  the  peasants  could  be  edu- 
cated, could  be  civilized,  could  be  turned  into  human 
beings.  Dreamed  that  when  Russia  undertook  that 
Poland  should  be  an  independent  kingdom  with  a 
Polish  governor,  and  a  Polish  Parliament,  she  would 
keep  her  word.  Dreamed  that  when  the  powers,  head- 
ed by  France  and  England,  promised  to  see  that  Rus- 
sia kept  to  the  terms  of  the  treaty,  they  would  do 
it.  Dreamed  that  somebody  out  of  all  that  crew, 
would  keep  his  word.  Comes  from  having  a  romantic 
heart." 

And  he  looked  at  ISTetty  with  his  fierce  smile,  as  if  to 
warn  her  against  this  danger. 

"  My  country,"  he  went  on,  "  didn't  take  a  hand  in 
that  deal.  Bit  out  of  breath  and  dizzy,  as  a  young  man 
would  be  that  had  had  to  fight  his  own  father  and  whip 
him." 

And  he  bobbed  his  head  apologetically  towards  Car- 
''  161 


THE     VULTURES 

toner,  as  representing  the  other  side  in  that  great  mis- 
understanding. 

"  Ever  heard  the  Polish  hjmu  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 
He  was  not  a  good  story-teller  perhaps.  And  while 
slowly  cutting  his  beef  across  and  across,  in  a  forlorn 
hope  that  it  might,  perchance,  not  give  him  dyspepsia 
this  time,  he  recited  in  a  sing-song  monotone : 

"  '  O  Lord,  who,  for  so  many  centuries,  didst  sur- 
round Poland  with  the  magnificence  of  power  and 
glory;  who  didst  cover  her  with  the  shield  of  Thy  pro- 
tection when  our  armies  overcame  the  enemy;  at  Thy 
altar  we  raise  our  prayer:  deign  to  restore  us,  O  Lord, 
our  free  country !'  " 

He  paused,  and  looked  slowly  round  the  table. 

"  Jooly — pass  the  mustard,"  he  said. 

Then,  having  helped  himself,  he  lapsed  into  the 
monotone  again,  with  a  sort  of  earnest  unction  that 
had  surely  crossed  the  seas  with  those  Pilgrim  Fathers 
who  set  sail  in  quest  of  liberty. 

''  '  Give  back  to  our  Poland  her  ancient  splendor ! 
Look  upon  fields  soaked  with  blood !  Wlien  shall  peace 
and  happiness  blossom  among  us  ?  God  of  wrath,  cease 
to  punish  us !  At  Thy  altar  we  raise  our  prayer :  deign 
to  restore  us,  O  Lord,  our  free  country !'  " 

And  there  was  an  odd  silence,  while  Joseph  P.  Man- 
gles ate  sparingly  of  the  beef. 

"  That  is  the  first  verse,  and  the  last,"  he  said  at 
length.  "  And  all  Poland  was  shouting  them  when  this 
man  dreamed  his  dreams.  They  are  forbidden  now, 
and  if  that  waiter's  a  liar,  I'll  end  my  days  in  Siberia. 
They  sang  it  in  the  churches,  and  the  secret  police  put 
a  chalk  mark  on  the  backs  of  those  that  sang  the  loud- 
est, and  they  were  arrested  when  they  came  out — wom- 
en and  children,  old  men  and  maidens." 

162 


JOSEPH'S     STORY 

Miss  Julie  P.  Mangles  made  a  little  movement,  as 
if  she  had  something  to  say,  as  if  to  catch,  as  it  were, 
the  eye  of  an  imaginary  chairman,  bnt  for  once  this 
great  speaker  was  relegated  to  silence  by  universal  ac- 
claim. For  no  one  seemed  to  want  to  hear  her.  She 
glanced  rather  impatiently  at  her  brother,  who  was  al- 
ways surprising  her  by  knowing  more  than  she  had 
given  him  credit  for,  and  by  interesting  her,  despite 
herself. 

"  The  dreamer  was  arrested,"  he  continued,  pushing 
away  his  plate,  "  on  some  trivial  excuse.  He  was  not 
dangerous,  but  he  might  be.  There  was  no  warrant 
and  no  trial.  The  Czar  had  been  graciously  pleased  to 
give  his  own  personal  attention  to  this  matter  which 
dispensed  with  all  formalities  and  futilities  ...  of  jus- 
tice. Siberia  !  Wife  with  great  dijSiculty  obtained  per- 
mission to  follow.  They  were  young — last  of  the  fam- 
ily. Better  that  they  should  be  the  last — thought  the 
paternal  government  of  Russia.  But  she  had  influen- 
tial relatives — so  she  went.  She  found  him  working  in 
the  mines.  She  had  taken  the  precaution  of  bringing 
doctor's  certificates.  Work  in  the  mines  would  inevi- 
tably kill  him.  Could  he  not  obtain  in-door  work  ?  He 
petitioned  to  be  made  the  body-servant  of  the  governor 
of  his  district — man  who  had  risen  from  the  ranks — 
and  was  refused.  So  he  went  to  the  mines  again — 
and  died.  The  wife  had  in  her  turn  been  arrested  for 
attempting  to  aid  a  prisoner  to  escape.  Then  the  worst 
happened — she  had  a  son,  in  prison,  and  all  the  care 
and  forethought  of  the  paternal  government  went  for 
nothing.  The  pestilential  race  was  not  extinct,  after 
all.  The  ancestors  of  that  prison  brat  had  been  kings 
of  Poland.  But  the  paternal  government  was  not  beat- 
en yet.     They  took  the  child  from  his  mother,  and  she 

163 


THE     V  U  L  T  U  E  E  S 

fretted,  and  died.  He  had  nobody  now  to  care  for  him, 
or  even  to  know  who  he  was,  but  his  foster-father — that 
great  and  parental  government." 

Joseph  paused,  and  looked  round  the  table  with  a 
humorous  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Nice  story,"  he  said,  "  isn't  it  ?  So  the  brat  was 
mixed  up  with  other  brats  so  effectually  that  no  one 
knew  which  was  which.  He  grew  up  in  Siberia,  and 
was  drafted  into  a  Cossack  regiment.  And  at  last  the 
race  was  extinct ;  for  no  one  knew.  IvTo  one,  except  the 
recording  angel,  who  is  a  bit  of  a  genealogist,  I  guess. 
Sins  of  the  fathers,  you  know.  Somebody  must  keep 
account  of  'em." 

The  dessert  was  on  the  table  now;  for  the  story  had 
taken  longer  in  the  telling  than  the  reading  of  it  would 
require. 

"  Cartoner,  help  l^etty  to  some  grapes,"  said  the 
host,  "  and  take  some  yourself.  Story  cannot  interest 
you — must  be  ancient  history.  Well — after  all,  it  was 
with  the  recording  angel  that  the  Russian  government 
slipped  up.  For  the  recording  angel  gave  the  prison 
brat  a  face  that  was  historical.  And  if  I  get  to  Heaven, 
I  hope  to  have  a  word  with  that  humorist.  For  an 
angel,  he's  uncommon  jilayful.  And  the  brat  met  an- 
other private  in  a  Cossack  regiment  who  recognized  the 
face,  and  told  him  who  he  was.  And  the  best  of  it  is 
that  the  government  has  weeded  out  the  dangerous 
growth  so  carefully  that  there  are  not  half  a  dozen 
people  in  Poland,  and  none  in  Russia,  who  would  rec- 
ognize that  face  if  they  saw  it  now." 

Joseph  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  which  he  drank 
with  outstretched  chin  and  dogged  eyes. 

"  Man's  loose  in  Poland  now,"  he  added. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  story. 

164 


XIX 

THE  HIGH-WATER  MARK 

?ETTY  did  not  smoke.  Sbe  confessed  to 
being  rather  an  old  -  fashioned  person. 
Which  was  usually  accounted  to  her  for 
righteousness  by  men,  who,  so  far  as 
women  are  concerned,  are  intensely  con- 
servative —  such  men,  at  all  events, 
whose  opinion  it  is  worth  a  woman's  while  to  value. 

Miss  Mangles,  on  the  other  hand,  made  a  point  of 
smoking  a  cigarette  from  time  to  time  in  public.  There 
were  two  reasons.  The  ostensible  reason,  which  she 
gave  freely  when  asked  for  it,  and  even  without  the 
asking — namely,  that  she  was  not  going  to  allow  men 
to  claim  the  monopoly  of  tobacco.  There  was  the  other 
reason,  which  prompts  so  many  actions  in  these  bla- 
tant times — the  unconscious  reason  that,  in  going  coun- 
ter to  ancient  prejudices  respecting  her  sex,  she  showed 
contempt  for  men,  and  meted  out  a  bitter  punishment 
to  the  entire  race  for  having  consistently  and  steadily 
displayed  a  complete  indifference  to  herself. 

Miss  Mangles  announced  her  intention  of  smoking  a 
cigarette  this  evening,  upon  which  Netty  rose  and  said 
that  if  they  were  not  long  over  their  tobacco  they  would 
find  her  in  the  drawing-room.  | 

The  Mangles'  salon  was  separated  from  the  dining- 
room  by  Joseph's  apartment — a  simple  apartment  in  no 

165 


THE     VULTUEES 

way  bcaiTtified  by  his  Spartan  articles  of  dress  and 
toilet.  The  drawing-room  was  at  the  end  of  the  pas- 
sage, and  there  was  a  gas-jet  at  each  corner  of  the 
corridor.  Netty  went  to  the  drawing-room,  but  stopped 
short  on  the  threshold.  Contrary  to  custom,  the  room 
was  dark.  The  old-fashioned  chandelier  in  the  centre 
of  the  large,  bare  apartment  glittered  in  the  light  of 
the  gas-jet  in  the  passage.  Netty  knew  that  there  were 
matches  on  the  square  china  stove  opposite  to  the  door, 
which  stood  open.  She  crossed  the  room,  and  as  she 
did  so  the  door  behind  her,  which  was  on  graduated 
hinges,  s\Aaing  to.  She  was  in  the  dark,  but  she  knew 
where  the  stove  was. 

Suddenly  her  heart  leaped  to  her  throat.  There  was 
some  one  in  the  room.  The  soft  and  surreptitious  foot- 
step of  a  person  making  his  way  cautiously  to  the  door 
was  unmistakable.  Netty  tried  to  speak — to  ask  who 
was  there.  But  her  voice  failed.  She  had  read  of  such 
a  failure  in  books,  but  it  had  never  been  her  lot  to  try 
to  speak  and  to  find  herself  dumb  until  now. 

Instinctively  she  turned  and  faced  the  mysterious 
and  terrifying  sound.  Then  her  courage  came  quite 
suddenly  to  her  again.  Like  many  diminutive  persons, 
she  was  naturally  brave.  She  moved  towards  the  door, 
her  small  slippers  and  soft  dress  making  no  sound.  As 
the  fugitive  touched  the  door-handle  she  stretched  out 
her  hand  and  grasped  a  rough  sleeve.  Instantly  there 
was  a  struggle,  and  Netty  fought  in  the  dark  with  some 
one  infinitely  stronger  and  heavier  than  herself.  That 
it  was  a  man  she  knew  by  the  scent  of  tobacco  and  of 
rough  working-clothes.  She  had  one  hand  on  the  han- 
dle, and  in  a  moment  turned  it  and  threw  open  the 
door.  The  light  from  without  flooded  the  room,  and  the 
man  leaped  back. 

166 


t 


r      0 


fi  T^ 


w 


"  IN   A   MOMENT   HE   WAS   AT   HER   FEET 


THE     HIGH- WATER     MARK 

It  was  Kosmaroff.  His  eyes  were  wild;  he  was 
breathless.  Eor  a  moment  he  was  not  a  civilized  man 
at  all.  Then  he  made  an  effort,  clinched  his  hands, 
and  bit  his  lips.     His  whole  demeanor  changed. 

"  You,  mademoiselle !"  he  said,  in  broken  English. 
"  Then  Heaven  is  kind — Heaven  is  kind !" 

In  a  moment  he  was  at  her  feet,  holding  her  two 
hands,  and  pressing  first  one  and  then  the  other  to  his 
lips.  He  was  wildly  agitated,  and  I^etty  was  conscious 
that  his  agitation  in  some  way  reached  her.  In  all  her 
life  she  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  really  car- 
ried away  until  that  moment.  She  had  never  felt  any- 
thing like  it— had  never  seen  a  man  like  this — at  her 
feet.  She  dragged  at  her  hands,  but  could  not  free 
them. 

"  I  came,"  he  said — and  all  the  while  he  had  one  eye 
on  the  passage  to  see  that  no  one  approached — "  to 
see  you,  because  I  could  not  stay  away !  You  think  I 
am  a  poor  man.  That  is  as  may  be.  But  a  poor 
man  can  love  as  well  as  a  rich  man — and  perhaps 
better !" 

"  You  must  go !  you  must  go !"  said  ]N"etty.  And  yet 
she  would  have  been  sorry  if  he  had  gone.  The  worst 
of  reaching  the  high-water  mark  is  that  the  ebb  must 
necessarily  be  dreary.  In  a  flash  of  thought  she  recol- 
lected Joseph  Mangles'  story.  This  was  the  sequel. 
Strange  if  he  had  heard  his  own  story  through  the  door 
of  communication  between  Mangles'  bedroom  and  the 
dining-room.  For  the  other  door,  from  the  salon  to 
the  bedroom,  stood  wide  open. 

"  You  think  I  have  only  seen  you  once,"  said  Kos- 
maroff. "  I  have  not.  I  have  seen  you  often.  But  the 
first  time  I  saw  you — at  the  races — was  enough.  I 
loved  you  then.    I  shall  love  you  all  my  life !" 

167 


THE     VULTURES 

"  You  must  go — you  must  go !"  whispered  Netty, 
dragging  at  her  hands. 

"  I  won't  unless  you  promise  to  come  to  the  Saski 
Gardens  now — for  five  minutes.  I  only  ask  five  min- 
utes. It  is  quite  safe.  There  are  many  passing  in  and 
out  of  the  large  door,  l^o  one  will  notice  you.  The 
streets  are  full.  I  made  an  excuse  to  come  in.  A  man 
I  know  was  coming  to  those  rooms  with  a  parcel  for  you. 
I  took  the  parcel.  See,  there  is  the  tradesman's  box.  I 
brought  it.  It  will  take  me  out  safely.  But  I  won't  go 
till  you  promise.    Promise,  mademoiselle !" 

"  Yes !"  whispered  ISTetty,  hurriedly.   "  I  will  come !" 

Firstly,  she  was  frightened.  The  others  might  come 
at  any  moment.  Secondly — it  is  to  be  feared — she 
wanted  to  go.  It  was  the  high-water  mark.  This  man 
carried  her  there  and  swept  her  off  her  feet — this  work- 
ing-man, in  his  rough  clothes,  whose  ancestor  had  been 
a  king. 

"  Go  and  get  a  cloak,"  he  said.  "  I  will  meet  you  by 
the  great  fountain." 

And  ]!!»[etty  ran  along  the  corridor  to  her  room,  her 
eyes  alight,  her  heart  beating  as  it  had  never  beaten  be- 
fore. 

Kosmaroff  watched  her  for  a  moment  with  that 
strange  smile  that  twisted  his  mouth  to  one  side.  Then 
he  struck  a  match  and  turned  to  the  chandelier.  The 
globe  was  still  warm.  He  had  turned  out  the  gas  when 
Netty's  hand  was  actually  on  the  handle. 

"  It  was  a  near  thing,"  he  said  to  himself  in  Rus- 
sian, which  language  he  had  learned  before  any  other, 
so  that  he  still  thought  in  it.  "  And  I  found  the  only 
way  out  of  that  hideous  danger." 

As  he  thus  reflected  he  was  putting  together  hastily 
the  contents  of  Joseph  Mangles's  writing-case,  which 

168 


THE    HIGH-WATER    MARK 

were  spread  all  over  the  table  in  confusion.  Then  he 
hurried  into  the  bedroom,  closed  one  or  two  drawers 
which  he  had  left  open,  put  the  despatch-case  where  he 
had  found  it,  and,  with  a  few  deft  touches,  set  the  apart- 
ment in  order.  A  moment  later  he  lounged  out  at  the 
great  doorway,  dangling  the  tradesman's  box  on  his 
arm. 

It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night,  and  the  gardens  were 
peopled  by  shadows  moving  hither  and  thither  beneath 
the  trees.  The  shadows  were  mostly  in  couples.  Oth- 
ers had  come  on  the  same  errand  as  Kosmaroff — for  a 
better  motive,  perhaps,  or  a  worse.  It  was  the  very 
end  of  St.  Martin's  brief  summer,  and  when  winter  lays 
its  quiet  mantle  on  these  northern  plains  lovers  must 
needs  seek  their  opportunities  in-doors. 

Kosmaroff  arrived  first,  and  sat  down  thoughtfully 
on  a  bench.  He  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  not  muf- 
fled in  great-coats  and  wraps  against  the  autumn  chill. 
He  had  known  a  greater  cold  than  Poland  ever  felt. 

"  I  suppose  she  will  come,"  he  said  in  his  mind, 
watching  the  gate  through  which  ISTetty  must  enter  the 
gardens.  "  It  matters  little  if  she  does  not.  For  I  do 
not  know  what  I  shall  say  when  she  does  come.  Must 
leave  that  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment — and  the 
moonlight.     She  is  pretty  enough  to  make  it  easy." 

In  a  few  moments  I^etty  passed  through  the  gate  and 
came  towards  him — not  hurriedly  or  furtively,  as  some 
maiden  in  a  book  to  her  first  clandestine  meeting — but 
with  her  head  thrown  back,  and  with  an  air  of  having 
business  to  transact,  which  was  infinitely  safer  and  less 
likely  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  idle.  It  was  she 
who  spoke  first. 

"  I  am  going  back  at  once,"  she  said.  "  It  was  very 
wrong  to  come.     But  you  frightened  me  so.     Was  it 

169 


THE     VULTURES 

very  wrong  ?  Do  you  think  it  was  wrong  of  me  to  come, 
and  despise  me  for  it  ?"  - 

"  You  promised,"  he  whispered,  eagerly ;  "  you  prom- 
ised me  five  minutes.  Out  of  a  whole  lifetime,  what  is 
it?  Eor  I  am  going  away  from  Warsaw  soon,  and  I 
shall  never  see  you  again  perhaps,  and  shall  have  only 
the  memory  of  these  five  minutes  to  last  me  all  my  life 
— these  five  minutes  and  that  minute — that  one  minute 
in  the  hotel." 

And  he  took  her  hand,  which  was  quite  near  to 
him,  somehow,  on  the  stone  bench,  and  raised  it  to  his 
lips. 

"  We  are  going  away,  too,"  she  said.  She  was  think- 
ing also  of  that  one  minute  in  the  doorway  of  the  sa- 
lon, when  she  had  touched  high-water  mark.  "  We  are 
on  our  way  to  St.  Petersburg,  and  are  only  waiting 
here  till  my  uncle  has  finished  some  business  affairs  on 
which  he  is  engaged." 

"  But  he  is  not  a  business  man,"  said  Kosmaroff,  sud- 
denlv  interested.     "  What  is  he  doinar  here  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  He  never  talks  to  me  of  his  affairs. 
I  never  know  whether  he  is  travelling  for  pleasure,  or 
on  account  of  his  business  in  America,  or  for  political 
purposes.  He  never  explains.  I  only  know  that  we  are 
going  on  to  St.  Petersburg." 

"  And  I  shall  not  see  you  again.  What  am  I  to  do 
all  my  life  without  seeing  you  ?  And  the  others — Mon- 
sieur Deulin  and  that  Englishman,  Cartoner — are  they 
going  to  St.  Petersburg,  too  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  jSTetty,  hastily  withdraw- 
ing her  hand,  because  a  solitary  promenader  was  passing 
close  by  them.     "  They  never  tell  me  either.    But .  .  ." 

"  But  what  ?  Tell  me  all  you  know,  because  it  will 
enable  me,  perhaps,  to  see  you  again  in  the  distance. 

170 


THE     HIGH-WATEE     MAKK 

All!   if  you  knew!     If  you  could  only  see  into  my 
heart !" 

And  he  took  her  hand  again  in  the  masterful  way 
that  thrilled  her,  and  waited  for  her  to  answer. 

"  Mr.  Cartoner  will  not  go  away  from  Warsaw  if  he 
can  help  it." 

"  Ah !"  said  Kosmaroff.    "  Why— tell  me  why  ?" 

But  ISTetty  shook  her  head.  They  were  getting  into 
a  side  issue  assuredly,  and  she  had  not  come  here  to 
stray  into  side  issues.  With  that  skill  which  came  no 
doulDt  with  the  inspiration  of  the  moment  in  which  Kos- 
maroff  trusted  he  got  back  into  the  straight  path  again 
at  one  bound — the  sloping,  pleasant  path  in  which  any 
fool  may  wander  and  any  wise  man  lose  himself. 

"  It  is  for  you  that  he  stays  here,"  he  said.  "  What 
a  fool  I  was  not  to  see  that !  How  could  he  know  you, 
and  be  near  you,  and  not  love  you  V 

"  I  think  he  has  found  it  quite  easy  to  do  it,"  an- 
swered ISTetty,  with  an  odd  laugh.  "  !N"o,  it  is  not  I  who 
keep  him  in  Warsaw,  but  somebody  who  is  clever  and 
beautiful." 

"  There  is  no  one  more  beautiful  than  you  in  War 
saw." 

And  for  a  moment  ITetty  was  silenced  by  she  knew 
not  what. 

"  You  say  that  to  please  me,"  she  said  at  last.  And 
her  voice  was  quite  different — it  was  low  and  uneven. 

"  I  say  it  because  it  is  the  truth.  There  is  no  one 
more  beautiful  than  you  in  all  the  world.  Heaven 
knows  it." 

And  he  looked  up  with  flashing  black  eyes  to  that 
heaven  in  which  he  had  no  faith. 

"  But  who  is  there  in  Warsaw,"  he  asked,  "  whom 
any  one  could  dream  of  comparing  with  you  ?" 

171 


THE     VULTUEES 

"  I  have  no  doubt  there  are  hundreds.  But  there  is 
one  whom  Mr.  Cartoner  compares  with  me — and  even 
you  must  know  that  she  is  prettier  than  I  am." 

"  I  do  not  know  it,"  protested  Kosmaroff,  again  tak- 
ing her  hand.     "  There  is  no  one  in  all  the  world." 

"  There  is  the  Princess  Wanda  Bukaty,"  said  E"etty, 
curtly. 

"  Ah !  Does  Cartoner  admire  her  ?  Do  they  know 
each  other  ?  Yes,  I  remember  I  saw  them  together  at 
the  races." 

"  They  knew  each  other  in  London,"  said  Netty. 
"  They  knew  each  other  when  I  first  saw  them  together 
at  Lady  Orlay's  there.  And  they  have  often  met  here 
since." 

Kosmaroff  seemed  to  be  hardly  listening.  He  was 
staring  in  front  of  him,  his  eyes  narrow  with  thought 
and  suspicion.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  ISTetty  and 
his  love  for  her  as  suddenly  as  he  had  remembered  it 
in  the  salon  a  few  minutes  earlier. 

"  Is  it  that  he  has  fallen  in  love — or  is  it  that  he 
desires  information  which  she  alone  can  give  him  ?"  he 
asked  at  length.  Which  was,  after  all,  the  most  natural 
thought  that  could  come  to  him  at  that  moment  and  in 
that  place.  For  every  man  must  see  the  world  through 
his  own  eyes. 

Before  she  could  answer  him  the  town  clocks  struck 
ten.     K^ettv  rose  hastilv  and  drew  her  cloak  round  her. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said ;  "  I  have  been  here  much  more 
than  five  minutes.  Why  did  you  let  me  stay?  Oh — 
why  did  you  make  me  come  ?" 

And  she  hurried  towards  the  gate,  Kosmaroff  walking 
by  her  side. 

"  You  will  come  again,"  he  said.  "  Now  that  you 
have  come  once — ^you  cannot  be  so  cruel.    Now  that  you 

173 


THE    H  I  G  H  -  W  A  T  E  R    ]\I  A  R  K 

know.  I  am  nearly  always  at  the  river,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Bednarska.  You  might  walk  past,  and  say  a  word 
in  passing.  You  might  even  come  in  my  boat.  Bring 
that  woman  with  the  black  hair,  your  aunt,  if  necessary. 
It  would  be  safer,  perhaps.    Do  you  speak  French  ?" 

"  Yes — and  she  does  not." 

"  Good — then  we  can  talk.  I  must  not  go  beyond  the 
gate.  Good-bye — and  remember  that  I  love  you — al- 
ways, always !" 

He  stood  at  the  gate  and  watched  her  hurry  across 
the  square  towards  the  side  door  of  the  hotel,  where  the 
concierge  was  so  busy  that  he  could  scarcely  keep  a  note 
of  all  who  passed  in  and  out. 

"  It  is  all  fair — all  fair,"  said  Kosmaroff  to  himself, 
seeking  to  convince  himself.  "  Besides — has  the  world 
been  fair  to  me  ?" 

Which  argument  has  made  the  worst  men  that  walk 
the  earth. 


XX 

A    LIGHT    TOUCH 

lOO]S[  after  ten  o'clock  Miss  Mangles  re- 
ceived a  message  that  Netty,  having  a 
headache,  had  gone  to  her  room.  Miss 
Cahere  had  never  given  way  to  that 
weakness,  which  is,  or  was,  euphonious- 
ly called  the  emotions.  She  was  not  old- 
fashioned  in  that  respect. 

But  to-night,  on  regaining  her  room,  she  was  con- 
scious, for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  of  a  sort  of  moral 
shakiness.  She  felt  as  if  she  might  do  or  say  something 
imprudent.  And  she  had  never  felt  like  that  before. 
No  one  in  the  world  could  say  that  she  had  ever  been 
imprudent.  That  which  the  lenient  may  call  a  school- 
girl escapade — a  mere  flight  to  the  garden  for  a  few 
minutes — was  scarcely  sufficient  to  account  for  this 
feeling.  She  must  be  unwell,  she  thought.  And  she 
decided,  with  some  wisdom,  not  to  submit  herself  to 
the  scrutiny  of  Paul  Deulin  again. 

Mr.  Mangles  had  not  finished  his  excellent  cigar; 
and  although  Miss  Mangles  did  not  feel  disposed  for 
another  of  those  long,  innocent-looking  Russian  cigar- 
ettes offered  by  Deulin,  she  had  still  some  views  of  value 
to  be  pressed  upon  the  notice  of  the  inferior  sex. 

Deulin  had  been  glancing  at  the  clock  for  some  time, 
and,  suspiciously  soon  after  learning  that  they  were  not 

1Y4 


A     LIGHT     TOUCH 

to  see  l^ettv  again,  lie  announced  with  regret  that  he  had 
letters  to  write,  and  must  take  his  leave.  Cartoner 
made  no  excuse,  but  departed  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  will  come  down  to  the  door  with  you,"  said  Deu- 
lin,  in  the  passage.  He  was  always  idle,  and  always 
had  leisure  to  follow  his  sociable  instincts. 

At  the  side  door,  while  Cartoner  was  putting  on  his 
coat,  he  stepped  rather  suddenly  out  into  the  street,  and 
before  Cartoner  had  found  his  hat  was  back  again. 

"  It  is  a  moonlight  night,"  he  said.  "  I  will  walk 
with  you  part  of  the  way." 

He  turned,  as  he  spoke,  towards  his  coat  and  hat  and 
stick,  which  were  hanging  near  to  where  Cartoner  had 
found  his  own.  He  did  not  seem  to  think  it  necessary 
to  ask  the  usual  formal  permission.  They  knew  each 
other  too  well  for  that.  Cartoner  helped  the  French- 
man on  with  his  thin,  light  overcoat,  and  reaching  out 
his  hand  took  the  stick  from  the  rack,  weighing  and 
turning  it  thoughtfully  in  his  hand. 

"  That  is  the  Madrid  stick,"  said  the  Frenchman. 
"  You  were  with  me  when  I  bought  it." 

"  And  when  you  used  it,"  added  Cartoner,  in  his 
quietest  tone,  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  door.  "  Generally 
keep  your  coat  in  the  hall  V  he  inquired,  casually,  as 
they  descended  the  steps. 

"  Sometimes,"  replied  Deulin,  glancing  at  the  ques- 
tioner sideways  beneath  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

It  was,  as  he  had  said,  a  beautiful  night.  The  moon 
was  almost  full  and  almost  overhead,  so  that  the  streets 
were  in  most  instances  without  shadow  at  all ;  for  they 
nearly  all  run  north  and  south,  as  does  the  river. 

"  Yes,"  said  Deulin,  taking  Cartoner's  arm,  and  lead- 
ing him  to  the  right  instead  of  the  left ;  for  Cartoner 
was  going  towards  the  Cracow  Faubourg,  which  was  the 

175 


THE    .VULTURES 

simplest  biit  not  the  shortest  way  to  the  Jasna.  "  Yes — 
let  us  go  by  the  quiet  streets,  eh  ?  We  have  walked  the 
pavement  of  some  queer  towns  in  our  clav,  you  and  I. 
The  typical  Englishman,  so  dense,  so  silent,  so  unob- 
servant— who  sees  notliing  and  knows  nothing  and  never 
laughs,  but  is  himself  the  laughing-stock  of  all  the  Lat- 
in races,  and  the  piece  de  resistance  of  their  comic 
papers.  And  I,  at  your  service,  the  typical  French- 
man ;  all  shrugs  and  gesticulations  and  mustache — of 
a  politeness  that  is  so  insincere — of  a  heart  that  is  so 
unstable.  Ah !  these  national  characteristics  of  comic 
journalism — how  the  stuj)id  world  trips  over  them  on 
to  its  vulgar  face !" 

As  he  spoke  he  was  hurrying  Cartoner  along,  ever 
quicker  and  quicker,  with  a  haste  that  must  have  been 
unconscious,  as  it  certainly  was  unnatural  to  one  who 
found  a  thousand  trifles  to  interest  him  in  the  streets 
whenever  he  walked  there. 

Cartoner  made  no  answer,  and  his  companion  ex- 
pected none.  They  were  in  a  narrow  street  now — 
between  the  backs  of  high  houses — and  had  left  the  life 
and  traffic  of  frequented  thoroughfares  behind  them. 
Deulin  turned  once  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
They  were  alone  in  the  street.  Lie  released  Cartoner's 
arm,  through  which  he  had  slipped  his  left  hand  in  an 
efi^usive  French  way.  Lie  was  fingering  his  stick  with 
his  riglit  hand  in  an  odd  manner,  and  walked  with  his 
head  half  turned,  as  if  listening  for  footsteps  behind 
him.  Suddenl}-^  he  swung  round  on  his  heels,  facing 
the  direction  from  which  they  had  just  come. 

Two  men  were  racing  up  the  street,  making  but  little 
noise  on  the  pavement. 

"  Any  coming  from  the  other  side  ?"  asked  Deulin. 

"  No." 

176 


A     LIGHT     TOUCH 

"  In  the  doorway/'  whispered  the  rrenehman.  He 
was  very  quick  and  quite  steady.  And  there  is  nothing 
more  dangerous  on  earth  than  a  steady  Frenchman,  who 
fights  with  his  brain  as  well  as  his  arm.  Deulin  was 
pushing  his  companion  back  with  his  left  hand  into  a 
shallow  doorway  that  had  the  air  of  being  little  used. 
The  long  blade  of  his  sword-stick,  no  thicker  at  the  hilt 
than  the  blade  of  a  sailor's  sheath-knife,  and  narrowing 
to  nothing  at  the  point,  glittered  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  and  thrust  the  empty  stick  into 
Cartoner's  hand.  "  But  you  need  not  use  it.  There 
are  onlv  two.     Ah  !     Ah  !" 

With  a  sharp  little  cry  of  delight  he  stepped  out  into 
the  moonlight,  and  so  quick  were  his  movements  in  the 
next  moments  that  the  eye  could  scarcely  follow  them. 
Those  who  have  seen  a  panther  in  liberty  know  there  is 
nothing  so  graceful,  so  quick,  so  lithe  and  noiseless  in 
animal  life.  And  Deulin  was  like  a  panther  at  that 
moment.  He  leaped  across  the  pavement  to  give  one 
man  a  stinging  switch  across  the  cheek  with  the  flat  of 
the  blade,  and  was  back  on  guard  in  front  of  Cartoner 
like  a  flash.  He  ran  right  round  the  two  men,  who 
stood  bewildered  together,  and  did  not  know  where  to 
look  for  him.  Once  he  lifted  his  foot  and  planted  a 
kick  in  the  small  of  his  adversary's  back,  sending  him 
staggering  against  the  wall.  He  laughed,  and  gave 
little,  sharp  cries  of  "Ah!"  and  "La!"  breathlessly. 
He  did  a  hundred  tricks  of  the  fencing-floor — performed 
a  dozen  turns  and  sleights  of  hand.  It  was  a  marvel  of 
agility  and  quickness.  He  struck  both  men  on  shoulder, 
arm,  hand,  head,  and  leg;  forward,  back-handed,  from 
above  and  from  below.  He  never  awaited  their  attack 
— but  attacked  them.  Was  it  not  ISTapoleon  who  said 
that  the  surest  way  to  defend  is  to  attack  ? 
aa  177 


THE     VULTUEES 

The  wonder  was  that,  wielding  so  keen  a  point,  he 
never  hurt  the  men.  The  sword  might  have  been  a 
lady's  riding-whip,  for  its  bloodlessness,  from  the  sting- 
ing cuts  he  inflicted.  But  the  whistle  of  it  through  the 
air  was  not  the  whistle  of  leather.  It  was  the  high^ 
clear,  terrifying  note  of  steel. 

The  two  men,  in  confusion,  hacked  across  the  road, 
and  finally  ran  to  the  opposite  pavement,  where  they 
were  half  hidden  by  a  deep  shadow.  Without  turning, 
Deulin  backed  towards  Cartoner,  who  stood  still  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Even  if  they  are  armed,"  said  Deulin,  "  they 
won't  fire.  They  don't  want  the  police  any  more  than 
we  do.  Can  tell  you,  Cartoner,  it  would  not  suit  my 
book  at  all  to  get  into  trouble  in  Warsaw  now." 

While  he  spoke  he  watched  the  shadows  across  the 
road. 

"  Both  have  knives,"  he  said,  "  but  they  cannot  get 
near  me.     Stay  where  you  are." 

"  All  right,"  said  Cartoner.  "  Haven't  had  a  chance 
yet." 

And  he  gave  a  low  laugh,  which  Deulin  had  only 
heard  once  or  twice  before  in  all  the  years  that  they  had 
known  each  other. 

"  That's  the  best,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  "  of  deal- 
ing with  a  man  who  keeps  his  head.  Here  they  come, 
Cartoner — here  they  come." 

And  he  went  out  to  meet  them. 

But  only  one  came  forward.  They  knew  that  unless 
they  kept  together,  Deulin  could  not  hold  them  both  in 
check.  The  very  fact  of  their  returning  to  the  attack — 
thus,  with  a  cold-blooded  courage — showed  that  they 
were  Poles.  In  an  instant  Deulin  divined  their  inten- 
tion.    He  ran  forward,  his  blade  held  out  in  front  of 

178 


A    LIGHT     TOUCH 

him.  Even  at  this  moment  he  could  not  lay  aside  the 
little  flourish — the  quick,  stiff  pose — of  the  fencer. 

His  sword  made  a  dozen  turns  in  the  air,  and  the 
point  of  it  came  down  lightly,  like  a  butterfly,  on  the 
man's  shoulder.  He  lowered  it  further,  as  if  seeking 
a  particular  spot,  and  then,  deliberately,  he  pushed  it 
in  as  if  into  a  cheese. 

"  Voila,  mon  ami,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  condescen- 
sion as  if  he  had  made  him  a  present.  As,  indeed,  he 
had.    He  had  given  him  his  life. 

The  man  leaped  back  with  a  little  yelp  of  pain,  and 
his  knife  clattered  on  the  stones.  He  stood  in  the  moon- 
light, looking  with  horror-struck  eyes  at  his  own  hand, 
of  which  the  fingers,  like  tendrils,  were  slowly  curling 
up,  and  he  had  no  control  over  them. 

"  And  now,"  said  Deulin,  in  Polish,  "  for  you." 

He  turned  to  the  other,  who  had  been  moving  surrep- 
titiously round  towards  Cartoner,  who  had,  indeed, 
come  out  to  meet  him ;  but  the  man  turned  and  ran,  fol- 
lowed closely  by  his  companion. 

Deulin  picked  up  the  knife,  which  lay  gleaming  on 
the  cobble-stones,  and  came  towards  Cartoner  with  it. 
Then  he  turned  aside,  and  carefully  dropped  it  between 
the  bars  of  the  street  gutter,  where  it  fell  with  a  muddy 
splash. 

"  He  will  never  use  that  hand  again,"  he  said.  "  Poor 
devil !    I  only  hope  he  was  well  paid  for  it." 

"  Doubt  it." 

Deulin  was  feeling  in  the  pocket  of  his  top-coat. 

"  Have  you  an  old  envelope  ?"  he  inquired. 

Cartoner  handed  him  what  he  asked  for.  It  happened 
to  be  the  envelope  of  the  letter  he  had  received  a  few 
days  earlier,  denying  him  his  recall.  And  Deulin  care- 
fully wiped  the  blade  of  the  sword-stick  vsdth  it.     He 

179 


THE     VULTURES 

tore  it  into  pieces  and  sent  it  after  the  knife.  Then  he 
polished  the  bright  steel  with  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
from  the  evil  point  to  the  hilt,  where  the  government 
mark  and  the  word  "  Toledo  "  were  deeply  engraved. 

"  Unless  I  keep  it  clean  it  sticks,"  he  explained. 
"  And  if  you  want  it  at  all,  you  want  it  in  a  hurry — 
like  a  woman's  heart,  eh  ?" 

He  was  looking  up  and  down  the  street  as  he  spoke, 
and  shot  the  blade  back  into  its  sheath.  He  turned  and 
examined  the  ground  to  make  sure  that  nothing  was 
left  there. 

"  The  light  was  good,"  he  said,  appreciatively,  "  and 
the  ground  favorable  for — for  the  autumn  manoeuvres." 

And  he  broke  into  a  gay  laugh. 

"  Come,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  go  back  into  the  more 
frequented  streets.  This  back  way  was  not  a  success — ■ 
only  proves  that  it  never  does  to  turn  tail." 

"  How  did  you  know,"  asked  Cartoner,  "  that  this 
was  coming  off  ?" 

"  Quite  simple,  my  friend.  I  was  at  the  window 
when  you  arrived  at  the  Europe.  You  were  followed. 
Or,  at  all  events,  I  thought  you  were  followed.  So  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  walk  back  with  you  and  see.  Veni, 
vidi,  vici — you  understand  ?" 

And  again  his  clear  laugh  broke  the  silence  of  that 
back  street,  Avhile  he  made  a  pass  at  an  imaginary  foe 
with  his  stick. 

"  I  thought  we  might  escape  by  the  quieter  streets," 
he  went  on.  "  Eor  it  is  our  business  to  seek  peace  and 
ensue  it.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  ISTeither  could  I  warn 
you,  because  we  have  never  interfered  in  each  other's 
business,  you  and  L  That  is  why  we  have  continued, 
through  many  chances  and  changes,  to  be  friends." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.    Then 

180 


A    LIGHT     TOUCH 

Cartoner  spoke,  saying  that  which  he  was  bound  to  say 
in  his  half-inaudible  voice. 

"  It  was  like  you,  to  come  like  that  and  take  the  risk," 
he  said,  "  and  say  nothing." 

But  Deulin  stopped  him  with  a  quick  touch  on  his 
arm. 

"  As  to  that,"  he  said,  "  silence,  my  friend.  Wait. 
Thank  me,  if  you  will,  five  years  hence — ten  years  hence 
— when  the  time  comes.  I  will  tell  you  then  why  I  did 
it." 

"  There  can  only  be  one  reason  why  you  did  it," 
muttered  the  Englishman. 

"  Can  there  ?  Ah !  my  good  Cartoner,  you  are  a  fool 
— the  very  best  sort  of  fool — and  yet,  in  the  matter  of 
intellect,  you  are  as  superior  to  me  as  I  am  superior 
to  you  ...  in  swordsmanship." 

And  he  made  another  pass  into  thin  air  with  his 
stick. 

"  I  should  like  to  fight  some  one  to-night,"  he  said. 
"  Some  one  of  the  very  first  order.  I  feel  in  the  vein. 
I  could  do  great  things  to-night — and  the  angels  in 
heaven  are  talking  of  me." 

In  his  light  -  hearted  way  he  bared  his  head  and 
looked  up  to  the  sky.  But  there  was  a  deeper  ring  in 
his  voice.    It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  were  sincere. 

As  he  stood  there,  bareheaded,  with  his  coat  open  and 
his  shirt  gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  a  carriage  rattled 
past,  and  stopped  immediately  behind  them.  The  door 
was  opened  from  within,  and  the  only  occupant,  alight- 
ing quickly,  came  towards  them. 

"  There  is  only  one  man  in  Warsaw  who  would 
apostrophize  the  gods  like  that,"  he  said.  The  speaker 
was  Prince  Martin  Bukaty. 

He  recognized  Cartoner  at  this  moment. 

181 


THE     VULTUKES 


a 


You!"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sharp  note  in  his 
voice.  "  You,  Cartoner !  What  are  you  doing  in  the 
streets  at  this  time  of  night  ?" 

"  We  have  been  dining  with  Mangles,"  explained 
Deulin. 

"  And  we  do  not  quite  know  what  we  are  doing,  or 
where  we  are  going,"  added  Cartoner.  "  But  we  think 
we  are  going  home." 

"  You  seem  to  be  on  the  spree,"  said  Martin,  with  a 
laugh  in  his  voice,  and  none  in  his  eyes. 

"  We  are,"  answered  Deulin. 

"  Come,"  said  Martin,  turning  to  send  away  the  car- 
riage. "  Come — your  shortest  way  is  through  our  place 
now.  My  father  and  Wanda  are  out  at  a  ball,  or  some- 
thing, so  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  see  them." 

"  Do  it,"  whispered  Deulin's  voice  from  behind. 

And  Cartoner  followed  Martin  up  the  narrow  passage 
that  led  to  the  garden  of  the  Bukaty  Palace, 


XXI 

A  CLEAR  UNDERSTANDING 

jAKTIlSr  led  the  way  without  speaking. 
He  opened  the  door  with  a  key,  and 
passed  through  first.  The  garden  was 
dark;  for  the  trees  in  it  had  grown  to 
a  great  height,  and,  protected  as  they 
were  from  the  wild  Avinds  that  sweep 
across  the  central  plain  of  Europe,  they  had  not  shed 
their  leaves. 

A  few  lights  twinkled  through  the  branches  from  the 
direction  of  the  house,  and  the  shape  of  the  large  con- 
servatory was  dimly  outlined,  as  though  there  were 
blinds  within,  partially  covering  the  glass. 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin,  carefully  closing  the  door  be- 
hind him.  "  You  find  me  in  sole  possession.  My  father 
and  sister  have  gone  to  a  reception — a  semi-political 
affair  at  which  they  are  compelled  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. It  only  began  at  half-past  nine.  They  will  not 
be  home  till  midnight.  Mind  those  branches,  Cartoner  I 
You  will  come  in,  of  course." 

And  he  hurried  on  again  to  open  the  next  door. 
"  Thank  you,  for  a  few  minutes,"  answered  Deulin, 
and  seeing  a  movement  of  dissent  on  Cartoner's  part, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  It  is  better,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone.  "  It  will 
put  them  completely  off  the  scent.  There  are  sure  to  be 
more  than  two  in  it." 

183 


THE     VULTURES 

So,  reluctantly,  Cartoner  followed  Martin  into  the 
Bukaty  Palace  for  the  first  time. 

"  Come,"  said  the  young  prince,  "  into  the  drawing- 
room.     I  see  they  have  left  the  lights  on  there." 

He  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  long,  bare  room,  and 
stood  aside  to  allow  his  guests  to  pass. 

"  Holloa !"  he  exclaimed,  an  instant  later,  following 
them  into  the  room. 

At  the  far  end  of  it,  where  two  large  folding-doors 
opened  to  the  conservatory,  half  turning  to  see  who 
came,  stood  Wanda.  She  had  some  flowers  in  her  hand, 
which  she  had  just  taken  from  her  dress. 

"  Back  again  already  ?"  asked  Martin,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Wanda.  "  There  were  some  people 
there  ho  did  not  want  to  meet,  so  we  came  away  again 
at  once." 

"  But  I  thought  they  could  not  possibly  be  there." 

"  They  got  there,"  answered  Wanda,  "  by  some  ill 
chance,  from  Petersburg,  just  in  time." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  shook  hands  with  Cartoner. 

"  It  is  not  such  an  ill  chance,  after  all,"  said  Deulin, 
"  since  it  gives  us  the  opportunity  of  seeing  you.  Where 
is  your  father  ?" 

"  He  is  in  his  study." 

"  I  rather  want  to  see  him,"  said  Deulin,  looking  at 
Martin. 

"  Come  along,  then,"  was  the  answer.  "  He  will  be 
glad  to  see  you.    It  will  cheer  him  up." 

And  Wanda  and  Cartoner  were  left  alone.     It  had' 
all  come  about  quickly  and   simply — so  much   quick- 
er  and   simiDler   than  human   plans   are  the   plans   of 
Heaven, 

Wanda,  still  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  con- 
servatory, of  which  the  warm,  scented  air  swept  out  past 

184 


A    CLEAR    UI^DERSTAKDING 

her  into  the  great  room,  watched  her  brother  and  Deu- 
lin  go  and  close  the  door  behind  them.  She  turned  to 
Cartoner  with  a  smile  as  if  about  to  speak ;  but  she  saw 
his  face,  and  she  said  nothing,  and  her  own  slowly  grew 
grave. 

He  came  towards  her,  upright  and  still  and  thought- 
ful. She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  past  him  towards  the 
closed  door.  He  only  looked  at  her  with  quiet,  remem- 
bering eyes.  Then  he  went  straight  to  the  point,  as  was 
his  habit. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  said,  "  when  I  said  that  fate 
could  be  hampered  by  action.  JSTothing  can  hamper  it. 
For  fate  has  brought  me  here  again." 

He  stood  before  her,  and  the  attitude  in  some  way 
conveyed  that  by  the  word  "  here  "  he  only  thought  and 
meant  near  to  her.  There  was  a  strange  look  in  her 
eyes  of  suspense  and  fear,  and  something  else  which 
needs  no  telling  to  such  as  have  seen  it,  and  cannot  be 
conveyed  in  words  to  those  who  have  not. 

"  A  clear  understanding,"  he  said,  abruptly,  recall- 
ing her  own  words.     "  That  is  your  creed." 

She  gave  a  little  nod,  and  still  looked  past  him  tow- 
ards the  door  with  deep,  submissive  eyes.  One  would 
have  thought  that  she  had  done  something  wrong  which 
was  being  brought  home  to  her.  Explain  the  thought, 
who  can ! 

"  I  made  another  mistake,"  he  said.  "  Have  been 
acting  on  it  for  years.  I  thought  that  a  career  was 
everything.  I  dreamed,  I  suppose,  of  an  embassy — of 
a  viceroyalty,  perhaps — when  I  was  quite  young,  and 
thought  the  world  was  easy  to  conquer.  All  that  .  .  . 
vanished  when  I  saw  you.  If  it  comes,  well  and  good. 
I  should  like  it,    ISTot  for  my  own  sake." 

She  made  a  little  movement,  and  her  eyelids  flickered. 

185 


THE     VUL TUBES 

Ah!  that  clear  understanding,  which  poor  humanity 
cannot  put  into  words ! 

"  If  it  doesn't  come  " — he  paused,  and  snapped  the 
finger  and  thumb  that  hung  quiescent  at  his  side — 
"  well  and  good.  I  shall  have  lived.  I  shall  have 
known  what  life  is  meant  to  be.  I  shall  have  been  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world." 

He  spoke  slowly  in  his  gently  abrupt  way.  Practice 
in  a  difficult  profession  had  taught  him  to  weigh  every 
^vord  he  uttered.  He  had  never  been  known  to  say  more 
than  he  meant. 

"  There  never  has  been  anybody  else,"  he  continued. 
"  All  that  side  of  life  was  quite  blank.  The  world  was 
empty  until  you  came  and  filled  it,  at  Lady  Orlay's, 
that  afternoon.  I  had  come  half  round  the  world — you 
had  come  across  Europe.  And  fate  had  fixed  that 
I  should  meet  you  there.  At  first  I  did  not  believe.  I 
thought  it  was  a  mistake — that  we  should  drift  apart 
again.  Then  came  my  orders  to  leave  for  Warsaw.  I 
knew  then  that  you  would  inevitably  return.  Still  I 
tried  to  get  out  of  it — fought  against  it — tried  to  avoid 
you.    And  you  know  what  it  all  came  to." 

She  nodded  again,  and  still  did  not  meet  his  eyes. 
She  had  not  spoken  to  him  since  he  entered  the  room. 

"  There  never  can  be  anybody  else,"  he  said.  "  How 
could  there  be  ?" 

And  the  abrupt  laugh  that  followed  the  question 
made  her  catch  her  breath.  She  had,  then,  the  knowl- 
edge given  to  so  few,  that  so  far  as  this  one  fellow- 
creature  was  concerned  she  was  the  whole  earth — that 
he  was  thrusting  upon  her  the  greatest  responsibility 
that  the  soul  can  carry.  Eor  to  love  is  as  difficult  as  it 
is  rare,  but  to  be  worthy  of  love  is  infinitely  harder. 

"  I  knew  from  the  first,"  he  continued,  "  that  there 

186 


(I 


A    CLEAK    UNDEKSTANDING 

is  no  hope.     Whichever  way  we  turn  there  is  no  hope. 
I  can  spare  you  the  task  of  telling  me  that." 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  his  at  last. 

"  You  knew  ?"  she  asked,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  know  the  history  of  Poland,"  he  said,  quietly. 

The  country  must  have  your  father  —  your  father 
needs  you.  I  could  not  ask  you  to  give  up  Poland — 
you  know  that." 

They  stood  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  They  had 
had  so  little  time  together  that  they  must  needs  have 
learned  to  understand  each  other  in  absence.  The 
friendship  that  grows  in  absence  and  the  love  that  comes 
to  life  between  two  people  who  are  apart,  are  the  love 
and  friendship  which  raise  men  to  such  heights  as  hu- 
man nature  is  permitted  to  attain. 

"  If  you  asked  me,"  said  Wanda,  at  length,  with  an 
illegible  smile — "  I  should  do  it." 

"  And  if  I  asked  you  I  should  not  love  you.  If  you 
loved  me,  you  would  one  day  cease  to  do  so;  for  you 
would  remember  what  I  had  asked  you.  There  would 
be  a  sort  of  flaw,  and  you  would  discover  it — and  that 
would  be  the  end." 

"  Is  it  so  delicate  as  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"  It  is  the  frailest  thing  in  the  world — and  the  strong- 
est," he  answered,  with  his  thoughtful  smile.  "  It  is  a 
very  delicate  sort  of — thought,  which  is  given  to  two 
people  to  take  care  of.  And  they  never  seem  to  succeed 
in  keeping  it  even  passably  intact — and  not  one  couple 
in  a  million  carry  it  through  life  unhurt.  And  the 
injuries  never  come  from  the  outer  world,  but  from 
themselves." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  all  that  ?"  she  asked,  looking 
at  him  with  her  shrewd,  smiling  eyes. 

"  You  taught  me." 

18Y 


THE     VULTUEES 

*'  But  you  Lave  a  terribly  high  ideal." 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  do  not  expect  the  impossible  ?" 

"  Quite." 

She  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  will  never  have  to  compromise  ? 
All  the  world  compromises." 

"  With  its  conscience,"  said  Cartoner.  "  And  look 
at  the  result." 

"  Then  you  are  good,"  she  returned,  looking  at  him 
v/ith  a  speculative  gravity,  "  as  well  as  concise — and 
rather  masterful." 

"  It  is  clear,"  he  said,  "  that  a  man  who  persuades  a 
woman  to  marry  against  her  inclination,  or  her  con- 
viction, or  her  conscience,  is  seeking  her  unhapiDiness 
and  his  own." 

"  Ah !"  she  cried.    "  But  you  ask  for  a  great  deal." 

"  I  ask  for  love." 

"  And,"  she  said,  going  past  that  question,  "  no  ob- 
stacles." 

"  'No  obstacles  that  both  could  not  conscientiously 
face  and  set  aside." 

"  And  if  one  such  object — quite  a  small  one — should 
be  found  ?" 

"  Then  tliey  must  be  content  with  love  alone." 

Wanda  turned  from  him,  and  fell  into  thought  for 
some  moments.  They  seemed  to  be  feeling  their  way 
forward  on  that  difficult  road  where  so  many  hasten 
and  such  numbers  fall. 

"  You  have  a  way,"  she  said,  "  of  putting  into  words 
— so  few  words — what  others  only  half  think,  and  do 
not  half  attempt  to  act  up  to.  If  they  did — there 
would,  perhaps,  be  no  marriages." 

"  There  would  be  no  unhappy  ones,"  said  Cartoner. 

.188 


A    CLEAE    U:N'DERSTAKDIN^G 

"  And  it  is  better  to  be  content  with  love  alone  ?" 

"  Content/'  was  his  sole  answer. 

Again  she  thought  in  silence  for  quite  a  long  time, 
although  their  moments  were  so  few.  A  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece  struck  half-past  ten.  Cartoner  had  bidden 
Joseph  P.  Mangles  good-night  only  half  an  hour  earlier, 
and  his  life  had  been  in  peril — he  had  been  down  to 
the  depths  and  up  to  the  heights  since  then.  When  the 
gods  arrive  they  act  quickly. 

"  So  that  is  your  creed,"  she  said  at  length.  "  And 
there  is  no  compromise  ?" 

"  !Kone,"  he  answered. 

And  she  smiled  suddenly  at  the  monosyllabic  reply. 
She  had  had  to  deal  with  men  of  no  compromise  more 
than  the  majority  of  villa-dwelling  w^onien  have  the 
opportunity  of  doing,  and  she  knew,  perhaps,  that  such 
are  the  backbone  of  human  nature. 

"  Ah !"  she  said,  with  a  quick  sigh,  as  she  turned 
and  looked  down  the  length  of  the  long,  lamp-lit  room. 
"  You  are  strong — you  are  strong  for  two." 

He  shook  his  head  in  negation,  for  he  knew  that  hers 
was  that  fine,  steely  strength  of  women  which  endures  a 
strain  all  through  a  lifetime  of  which  the  w^orld  knows 
nothing.  Then,  acting  up  to  her  ovni  creed  of  seeking 
always  the  clear  understanding,  she  returned  to  the 
point  they  had  left  untouched. 

"  And  if  two  people  had  between  them,"  she  sug- 
gested, wonderingly,  "  that  with  which  you  say  they 
might  be  content,  if  they  had  it,  and  were  sure  they  had 
it;  and  had  with  it  a  perfect  trust  in  each  other,  but 
knew  that  they  could  never  have  more,  could  they  be 
happy  ?" 

"•  They  could  be  happier  than  nearly  everybody  else 
in  the  world/'  he  answered. 

189 


THE     VULTURES 

"  ^nd  if  they  had  to  go  on  all  their  lives — and  if 
one  lived  in  London  and  the  other  in  Warsaw — War- 
saw?" 

"  They  could  still  be  happy." 

"  If  she — alone  at  one  end  of  Europe — "  asked  Wan- 
da, with  her  worldly-wise  searching  into  detail — "  if 
she  saw  slowly  vanishing  those  small  attractions  which 
belong  to  youth,  for  which  he  might  care,  perhaps  ?" 

"  She  could  still  be  happy." 

"  And  he  ?  If  he  experienced  a  check  in  his  career,  or 
had  some  misfortune,  and  felt  lonely  and  disappointed 
— and  there  was  no  one  near  to — to  take  care  of  him  ?" 

"  He  could  still  be  happy — if — " 

"If—?" 

"  If  he  knew  that  she  loved  him,"  replied  Cartoner, 
slowly. 

Wanda  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  little 
laugh,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh !  you  may  know  that,"  she  said,  suddenly  de- 
scending from  the  uncertain  heights  of  generality. 
"  You  may  be  quite  sure  of  that.  If  that  is  what  you 
want." 

"  That  is  what  I  want." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  her  hand  and  slowly  raised  it 
to  his  lips.  She  looked  at  his  bent  head,  and  when  her 
eyes  rested  on  the  gray  hairs  at  his  temples,  they  lighted 
suddenly  Avith  a  gleam  which  was  strangely  protecting 
and  dimly  maternal. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  away  from  Warsaw,"  she  said. 
"  I  would  rather  you  went  even  if  you  say — that  you 
are  afraid  to  stay." 

"  I  cannot  say  that." 

"  Besides,"  she  added,  with  her  head  held  high,  "  they 
would  not  believe  you  if  you  did." 

190 


A     CLEAK     UNDEKSTANDIE'G 

"  I  promise  you,"  he  answered,  "  not  to  run  any  risks, 
to  take  every  care.  But  we  must  not  see  each  other.  I 
may  have  to  go  away  without  seeing  you." 

She  gave  a  little  nod  of  comprehension,  and  held  her 
lips  between  her  teeth.  She  was  looking  towards  the 
door ;  for  she  had  heard  voices  in  that  direction. 

"  I  should  like,"  she  said,  "  to  make  you  a  promise  in 
return.  It  would  give  me  great  satisfaction.  Some  day 
you  may,  perhaps,  be  glad  to  remember  it." 

The  voices  were  approaching.  It  was  Deulin's  voice, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  unnecessarily  loud. 

"  I  promise  you,"  said  Wanda,  with  unfathomable 
eyes,  "  never  to  marry  anybody  else." 

And  the  door  opened,  giving  admittance  to  Deulin, 
who  was  laughing  and  talking.  He  came  forward  look- 
ing, not  at  Wanda  and  Cartoner,  but  at  the  clock. 

"  To  your  tents,  O  Israel !"  he  said. 

Cartoner  said  good-niglit  at  once,  and  went  to  the 
door.  For  a  moment  Deulin  was  left  alone  with  Wan- 
da. He  went  to  a  side-table,  where  he  had  laid  his 
sword-stick.  He  took  it  up,  and  slowly  turned  it  in  his 
hand. 

"  Wanda,"  he  said,  "  remember  me  in  your  prayers 
to-night !" 


XXII 


THE  WHITE  FEATHER 


iT  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  majority  of 
people  are  willing  enough  to  seek  the 
happiness  of  others;  which  desire  leads 
the  individual  to  interfere  in  her  neigh- 
bor's aifairs,  while  it  burdens  society 
with  a  thousand  associations  for  the  wel- 
fare of  mankind  or  the  raising  of  the  masses. 

Looking  at  the  question  from  the  strictly  common- 
sense  point  of  view,  it  would  appear  to  the  observer  that 
those  who  do  the  most  good  or  the  least  harm  are  the 
uncharitable.  Better  than  the  eager,  verbose  man  is 
he  who  stands  on  the  shore  cynically  watching  a  lands- 
man in  a  boat  without  proffering  advice  as  to  how  the 
vessel  should  be  navigated,  who  only  holds  out  a  cold 
and  steady  hand  after  the  catastrophe  has  happened, 
or,  if  no  catastrophe  supervenes,  is  content  to  walk  away 
in  that  silent  wonder  which  the  care  of  Providence  for 
the  improvident  must  ever  evoke. 

Paul  Deulin  was  considered  by  his  friends  to  be  a 
cynic;  and  a  French  cynic  is  not  without  cruelty.  He 
once  told  Wanda  that  he  had  seen  men  and  women  do 
much  worse  than  throw  their  lives  away,  which  was  prob- 
ably the  unvarnished  truth.  But  there  must  have  been  a 
weak  spot  in  his  cynicism.  There  always  is  a  weak  spot 
in  the  vice  of  the  most  vicious.     For  he  sat  alone  in 

192 


THE    WHITE    EEATHEE 

his  room  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Eiirope,  at  Warsaw,  long  Into 
the  niglit,  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette,  and  think- 
ing thoughts  which  he  would  at  any  other  juncture  have 
been  the  first  to  condemn.  He  was  thinking  of  tlic  af- 
fairs of  others,  and  into  his  thoughts  there  came,  more- 
over, the  affairs,  not  of  individuals,  but  of  nations.  A 
fellow-countryman  once  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  so 
long  as  the  trains  ran  punctually  and  meals  were  served 
at  regular  intervals  he  could  perceive  no  difference  be- 
tween one  form  of  government  and  another.  And  in 
the  majority  of  instances  the  fate  of  nations  rarely  af- 
fects the  lives  of  individuals. 

Deulin,  however,  was  suddenly  made  aware  of  his 
own  ignorance  of  aft'airs  that  were  progi^essing  in  his 
immediate  vicinity,  and  which  were  affecting  the  lives 
of  those  around  him.  More  than  any  other  do  French- 
men herd  together  in  exile,  and  Deulin  knew  all  his 
fellow-countrymen  and  women  in  Warsaw,  in  whatso- 
ever station  of  life  they  happened  to  move.  He  had  a 
friend  behind  the  counter  of  the  small  feather-cleaning 
shop  in  the  Jerozolimska.  This  lady  was  a  French  Jew- 
ess, who  had  by  some  undercurrent  of  Judaism  drifted 
from  Paris  to  Warsaw  again  and  found  herself  once 
more  among  her  own  people.  The  western  world  is 
ignorant  of  the  strength  of  Jewry  in  Poland. 

Deulin  made  a  transparent  excuse  for  his  visit  to  the 
cleaner's  shop.  He  took  with  him  two  or  three  pairs  of 
those  lavender  gloves  which  Englishmen  have  happily 
ceased  to  wear  by  day. 

"  One  likes,"  he  said  to  the  stout  Jewess,  "  to  talk 
one's  own  tongue  in  a  foreign  land." 

And  he  sat  down  quite  affably  on  the  hither  side  of 
the  counter.  Conversation  ran  smoothly  enough  be- 
tween these  two,  and  an  hour  slipped  past  before  Deu- 
13  193 


THE     VULTUKES 

lin  quitted  the  little  shop.  It  was  still  early  in  the  day, 
and  he  hurried  to  Cartoner's  rooms  in  the  Jasna.  He 
bouffht  a  flower  at  the  corner  of  the  Jerozolimska  as  he 
went  along,  and  placed  it  in  his  buttonhole.  He  wore 
his  soft  felt  hat  at  a  gay  angle,  and  walked  the  pave- 
ment at  a  pace  and  with  an  air  belonging  to  a  younger 
generation. 

"  Ah !"  he  cried,  at  the  sight  of  Cartoner,  pipe  in 
mouth,  at  his  writing-table.  "  Ah !  if  you  were  only 
idle,  as  I  am  " — he  paused,  with  a  sharp,  little  sigh — • 
"  if  you  only  could  be  idle,  how  much  happier  you 
would  be !" 

"  A  Erenchman,"  replied  Cartoner,  without  looking 
up,  "  thinks  that  noise  means  happiness." 

"  Then  you  are  happy — ^you  pretend  to  happiness  ?" 
inquired  Deulin,  sitting  down  without  being  invited  to 
do  so,  and  drawing  towards  him  a  cigarette-case  that 
lay  upon  the  table. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  replied  Cartoner,  lightly.  He 
seemed,  too,  to  be  gay  this  morning. 

"  Don't  thank  me — thank  the  gods,"  replied  Deulin, 
with  a  sudden  gravity. 

"  Well,"  said  Cartoner  presently,  without  ceasing  to 
write,  "  what  do  you  want  ?" 

Deulin  glanced  at  his  friend  with  a  gleam  of  sus- 
picion. 

"  What  do  I  want?"  he  inquired,  innocently. 

"  Yes.  You  want  something.  I  always  know  when 
you  want  something.  When  you  are  most  idle  you  are 
most  occupied." 

"Ah!" 

Cartoner  wi'ote  on  while  Deulin  lighted  a  cigarette 
and  smoked  half  of  it  with  a  leisurely  enjoyment  of  its 
bouquet. 

194  ^ 


THE     WHITE     FEATHER 

"  There  is  a  certain  smell  in  the  Riie  Rojale,  left- 
hand  side  looking  towards  the  Cohmiu — the  shady  side, 
after  the  street  has  been  watered — that  my  soul  de- 
sires," said  the  Frenchman,  at  length. 

"  When  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Cartoner,  softly. 

"  I  am  not  going ;  I  wish  I  were.  I  thought  I  was 
last  night.  I  thought  I  had  done  my  work  here,  and 
that  it  would  be  unnecessary  to  wait  on  indefinitely 
for—" 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  For  the  upheaval,"  explained  Deulin,  with  an  airy 
wave  of  his  cigarette. 

"  This  morning — "  he  began.  And  then  he  waited 
for  Cartoner  to  lay  aside  his  pen  and  lean  back  in  his 
chair  with  the  air  of  thoughtful  attention  which  he 
seemed  to  wear  towards  that  world  in  which  he  moved 
and  had  his  being.  Cartoner  did  exactly  what  was  ex- 
pected of  him. 

"  This  morning  I  picked  up  a  scrap  of  information." 
He  drew  towards  him  a  newspaper,  and  with  a  pencil 
made  a  little  drawing  on  the  margin.  The  design  was 
made  in  three  strokes.  It  was  not  unlike  a  Greek  cross, 
Deulin  threw  the  paper  across  the  table. 

"  You  know  that  man  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  his  name,"  replied  Cartoner. 

"ISTo ;  no  one  knows  that,"  replied  Deulin.  "  It  is 
one  of  the  very  few  mysteries  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
All  the  others  are  cleared  up." 

Cartoner  made  no  answer.  He  sat  looking  at  the 
design,  thinking,  perhaps,  with  wonder  of  the  man  who 
in  this  notoriety-loving  age  was  still  content  to  be  known 
only  by  a  mark. 

"  Up  to  the  present  I  have  not  attached  much  im- 
portance to  those  rumors  which,  happily,  have  never 

195 


THE    yULTUKES 

reached  the  newspaper,"  said  Deiilin,  after  a  pause. 
"  One  has  supposed  that,  as  usual,  Poland  is  ready  for 
an  upheaval.  But  the  upheaval  does  not  come.  That 
has  been  the  status  quo  for  many  years  here.  Suppose 
— suppose,  my  friend,  tliat  they  manufacture  their  own 
opportunity,  or  agree  with  some  other  body  of  malcon- 
tents as  to  the  creating  of  an  opportunity." 

"Anarchy?"  inquired  Cartoner. 

"  The  ladies  of  the  party  call  it  ISTihilism,"  replied 
the  Erenchman,  with  an  inimitable  gesture,  convey- 
ing the  fact  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  gainsay  a 
lady. 

"  Bukaty  would  not  stoop  to  that.  Remember,  they 
are  a  patient  people.     They  waited  thirty  years." 

"  And  struck  too  hastily,  after  all,"  commented  Deu- 
lin.  "  Bukaty  would  not  link  himself  with  these  others, 
who  talk  so  much  and  do  so  little.  But  there  are  others 
besides  Bukaty,  who  are  younger,  and  can  afford  to 
wait  longer,  and  are  therefore  less  patient — men  of  a 
more  modern  stamp,  without  his  educational  advan- 
tages, who  are  nevertheless  sincere  enough  in  their  way. 
It  may  not  be  a  gentlemanly  way — " 

"  The  man  who  goes  by  the  name  of  Kosmaroff  is  a 
gentleman,  according  to  his  lights,"  interrupted  Car- 
toner. 

"  Ah !  since  you  say  so,"  returned  Deulin,  with  a  sig- 
nificant gesture,  "  yes." 

"  Bon  sang,"  said  Cartoner,  and  did  not  trouble  to 
complete  the  saying.  "  He  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman 
to  herd  with  the  extremists." 

But  Deulin  did  not  seem  to  be  listening.  He  was  fol- 
lowing his  own  train  of  thought. 

"  So  you  know  of  Ivosmaroff  ?"  he  said,  studying  his 
companion's  face.     "  You  know  that,  too.     .What  a  lot 

196 


THE     WHITE     FEATHER 

you  know  behind  that  dull  physiognomy.  Where  is 
Kosmaroff  ?    Perhaps  you  know  that." 

"  In  Warsaw,"  guessed  Cartoner. 

"  Wrong,  He  has  gone  towards  Berlin — towards 
London,  bv  the  same  token." 

Deulin  leaned  across  the  table  and  tapped  the  symbol 
that  he  had  drawn  on  the  margin  of  the  newspaper^ 
daintily,  with  his  finger-nail. 

"  That  parishioner  is  in  London,  too,"  he  said,  in  his 
own  tongue — and  the  word  means  more  in  French. 

Cartoner  slowly  tore  the  margin  from  the  newspaper 
and  reduced  the  drawing  to  small  pieces.  Then  he 
glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  Trying  to  get  me  out  of  Warsaw,"  he  said.  "  Giv- 
ing me  a  graceful  chance  of  showing  the  white  feather." 

Deulin  smiled.  He  had  seen  the  glance,  and  he  was 
quicker  than  most  at  guessing  that  which  might  bo 
passing  in  another  man's  mind.  The  force  of  habit  is 
so  strong  that  few  even  think  of  a  train  without  noting 
the  time  of  day  at  the  same  moment.  If  Cartoner  was 
thinking  of  a  train  at  that  instant,  it  could  only  be  the 
train  to  Berlin  on  the  heels  of  Kosmaroff,  and  Deulin 
desired  to  get  Cartoner  away  from  Warsaw. 

"  The  white  feather,"  he  said,  "  is  an  emblem  that 
neither  you  nor  I  need  trouble  our  minds  about.  Don't 
get  narrow-minded,  Cartoner.  It  is  a  national  fault, 
remember.  For  an  Englishman,  you  used  to  be  sin- 
gularly independent  of  the  opinion  of  the  man  in  the 
street  or  the  woman  at  the  tea-table.  Afraid !  What 
does  it  matter  who  thinks  we  are  afraid  ?" 

And  he  gave  a  sudden  staccato  laugh  which  had  a 
subtle  ring  in  it  of  envy,  or  of  that  heaviness  which  is 
of  a  life  that  is  waxing  old. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  and  he  made  a 

197 


THE     VULTUEES 

little  diagram  on  the  table,  "  here  is  a  bonfire,  all  dry 
and  crackling — here,  in  Warsaw.  Here — in  Berlin  or 
in  London — is  the  man  with  the  match  that  will  set  it 
alight.  You  and  I  have  happened  on  a  great  event, 
and  stand  in  the  shadow  that  it  casts  before  it,  for  the 
second — no,  for  the  third  time  in  our  lives.  We  work 
together  again,  I  suppose.  We  have  always  done  so 
when  it  was  possible.  One  must  watch  the  dry  wood, 
the  other  must  know  the  movements  of  the  man  with 
the  kindling.  Take  your  choice,  since  your  humor  is 
so  odd.  You  stay  or  you  go — but  remember  that  it  is 
in  the  interests  of  others  that  you  go." 

"  Of  others  ?" 

"  Yes — of  the  Bukatys.  Your  presence  here  is  a  dan- 
ger to  them,    l^ow  go  or  stay,  as  you  like." 

Cartoner  glanced  at  his  companion  with  watchful 
eyes.  He  was  not  deliberating;  for  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  long  ago,  and  was  now  weighing  that  decision. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  said,  at  length.  And  Deulin  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  half-suppressed  yawn  of  in- 
difference. It  was,  as  Cartoner  had  observed,  when  he 
was  most  idle  that  this  gentleman  had  important  busi- 
ness in  hand.  He  had  a  gay,  light,  easy  touch  on  life, 
and,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  never  set  much  store  upon  the 
gain  of  an  object.  It  seemed  that  he  must  have  played 
the  game  in  earnest  at  one  time,  must  have  thrown 
down  his  stake  and  lost  it,  or  won  it  perhaps,  and  then 
had  no  use  for  his  gain,  which  is  a  bitterer  end  than  loss 
can  ever  be. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  And,  at  all 
events,  you  will  see  the  last  of  this  sad  city." 

Then  he  changed  the  subject  easily,  and  began  to 
talk  of  some  trivial  matter.  From  one  question  to  an- 
other he  passed,  with  that  air  of  superficiality  which 

198 


THE     WHITE     FEATHER 

northern  men  can  never  hope  to  understand,  and  here 
and  there  he  touched  upon  those  grave  events  M^hich 
wise  men  foresaw  at  this  period  in  European  history, 

"  I  smell,"  he  said,  "  something  in  the  atmosphere. 
Strangers  passing  in  the  street  look  at  one  with  a  ques- 
tioning air,  as  if  there  were  a  secret  which  one  might 
perhaps  be  party  to.    And  I,  who  have  no  secrets." 

He  spread  out  his  hands,  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"  Because,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  gTavity,  "  there 
is  nothing  in  life  worth  making  a  secret  of — except 
one's  income.  There  are  many  reasons  why  mine  re- 
mains unconf essed.  But,  my  friend,  if  anything  should 
happen — anything — anywhere — we  keep  each  other  ad- 
vised.    Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Usual  cipher,"  answered  Cartoner. 

"  My  salutations  to  Lady  Orlay,"  said  Deulin,  with 
a  reflective  nod.    "  That  woman  who  can  keep  a  secret." 

"  I  thought  you  had  none." 

"  She  knows  the  secret — of  my  income,"  answered 
the  Frenchman.  "  Tell  her — no !  Do  not  tell  her  any- 
thing.   But  go  and  see  her.    When  will  you  leave  ?" 

"  To-night." 

"  And  until  then  ?  Come  and  lunch  with  me  at  the 
Russian  Club.  ISTo !  Well,  do  as  you  like.  I  will  say 
good-bye  now.  Heavens !  how  many  times  have  we  met 
and  said  good-bye  again  in  hotels  and  railway  stations 
and  hired  rooms!  We  have  no  abiding  city  and  no 
friends.  We  are  sons  of  Ishmael,  and  have  none  to  care 
when  we  furl  our  tents  and  steal  away." 

He  paused,  and  looked  round  the  bare  room,  in  which 
there  was  nothing  but  the  hired  furniture. 

"  The  police  will  be  in  here  five  minutes  after  you 
are  out,"  he  said,  curtly.  "  You  have  no  message — " 
He  paused  to  pick  up  from  the  floor  a  petal  of  his  flower 

199 


THE     VULTUKES 

that  had  fallen.     Then  he  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.     Standing  there,  with  his  back  to  Cartonei'j 
he  went  on :  "  No  message  to  any  one  in  Warsaw  ?" 
.     "  ]^o,"  answered  Cartoner. 

"  'No — you  wouldn't  have  one.  You  are  not  that 
sort  of  man.  Gad!  you  are  hard,  Cartoner — hard  as 
nails." 

Cartoner  did  not  answer.  He  was  already  putting 
together  his  possessions — already  furling  his  solitary 
tent.  It  was  only  natural  tliat  he  was  loath  to  go ;  for 
lie  was  turning  his  back  on  danger,  and  few  men  worthy 
of  the  name  do  that  with  alacrity,  whatever  their  na- 
tionality may  be ;  for  gameness  is  not  solely  a  British 
virtue,  as  is  supposed  in  English  public  schools. 

Suddenly  Deulin  turned  round  and  shook  hands. 

"  Don't  know  when  we  shall  next  meet.  Take  care 
of  yourself.     Good-bye." 

And  he  went  towards  the  door.  But  he  paused  on  the 
threshold. 

''  The  matter  of  the  ^  white  feather  '  you  may  leave 
to  me.  You  may  leave  others  to  me,  too,  so  far  as  that 
goes.    The  sons  of  Ishmael  must  stand  together." 

And,  with  an  airv  wave  of  the  hand  and  his  rather 
hollow  laugh,  he  was  gone. 


XXIII 


C(EUE  VOLANT 


]^  that  great  plain  which  is  known  to 
geographers  as  the  Central  European 
Depression  the  changes  of  the  weather 
are  very  deliberate.  If  rain  is  coming, 
the  cautions  receive  full  warning  of  its 
approach.  The  clouds  gather  slowly, 
and  disperse  without  haste  when  their  work  is  done. 
For  some  davs  it  had  been  looking  like  rain.  The 
leaves  on  the  trees  of  the  Saski  Gardens  were  hanging 
limp  and  lifeless.  The  whole  world  was  dusty  and  ex- 
pectant. Cartoner  left  Warsaw  in  a  deluge  of  rain.  It 
had  come  at  last. 

In  the  afternoon  Deulin  went  to  call  at  the  Bukaty 
Palace.  He  was  ushered  into  the  great  drawing-room, 
and  there  left  to  his  own  devices.  He  did  an  unusual 
thing.  He  fell  into  a  train  of  thought  so  absorbing 
that  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open  or  the  soft  sound 
of  Wanda's  dress  as  she  entered  the  room.  Her  gay 
laugh  brought  him  down  to  the  present  with  a  sort  of 
shock. 

"  You  were  dreaming,"  she  said. 
"  Heaven  forbid !"  he  answered,  fervently.   "  Dreams 
and  white  hairs —    l^o,  I  was  listening  to  the  rain." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  defiance 
in  his  eyes,  as  if  daring  her  to  doubt  him. 

201 


THE     V  U  L  T  U  K  E  S 


a 


I  was  listening  to  tlie  rain.  The  summer  is  gone^ 
Wanda — it  is  gone." 

He  drew  forward  a  chair  for  her,  and  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  towards  the  large  folding-doors,  through 
which  the  conservatory  was  visible  in  the  fading  light. 
The  rain  drummed  on  the  glass  roof  with  a  hopeless, 
slow  persistency. 

'^  Can  you  not  shut  that  door  ?"  he  said.  "  Bon  Dieu  I 
what  a  suicidal  note  that  strikes — that  hopeless  rain — ■ 
a  northern  autumn  evening!  There  was  a  chill  in  the 
air  as  I  drove  down  the  Faubourg.  If  I  were  a  woman 
I  should  have  tea,  or  a  cry.  Being  a  man,  I  curse  the 
weather  and  drive  in  a  hired  carriage  to  the  pleasantest 
place  in  Warsaw." 

Without  waiting  for  further  permission,  he  went  and 
closed  the  large  doors,  shutting  out  the  sound  of  the 
rain  and  the  sight  of  the  streaming  glass,  with  sodden 
leaves  stuck  here  and  there  upon  it.  Wanda  watched 
him  with  a  tolerant  smile.  Her  dailv  life  was  lived 
among  men;  and  she  knew  that  it  is  not  only  women 
who  have  unaccountable  humors,  a  sudden  anger,  or  a 
quick  and  passing  access  of  tenderness.  There  was  a 
shadow  of  uneasiness  in  her  eyes.  He  had  come  to  tell 
her  something.  She  knew  that.  She  remembered  that 
when  this  diplomatist  looked  most  idle  he  was  in  reality 
about  his  business. 

"  There,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  back  in  an  easy- 
chair  and  looking  at  her  with  smiling  lips  and  eyes 
deeply,  tragically  intelligent.  "  That  is  more  comfort- 
able. Can  you  tell  me  nothing  that  will  amuse  me  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  my  sins  sit  heavily  on  me  this 
evening  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  if  it  will  amuse  you,"  answered  Wan- 
da, in  her  energetic  way,  as  if  taking  him  at  his  word 

202 


C(EUR    VOLANT 

and  seeking  to  rouse  him,  '^  but  Mr.  Mangles  and  Miss 
Cahere  are  coming  to  tea  this  evening." 

Deulin  made  a  grimace  and  glanced  at  the  clock.  If 
he  had  anything  to  say,  he  seemed  to  be  thinking,  he 
must  say  it  quickly.  Wanda  was,  perhaps,  thinking 
the  same. 

"  Separately  they  are  amusing  enough,"  he  said,  slow- 
ly, "  but  they  do  not  mingle.  I  have  an  immense  re- 
spect for  Joseph  P.  Mangles." 

"  So  has  my  father,"  put  in  Wanda,  rather  sig- 
nificantly. 

"  Ah !  that  is  why  you  asked  them.  Your  father 
knows  that  in  a  young  country  events  move  by  jerks — 
that  the  man  who  is  nobody  to-day  may  be  somebody 
to-morrow.  The  mammon  of  unrighteousness,  Wan- 
da." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  are  above  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  am  not  above  anything  that  they  deem  necessary 
for  the  good  of  Poland,"  she  answered,  gravely.  "  They 
give  everything.    I  have  not  much  to  give,  you  see." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  what  every  woman  has — to 
sacrifice  upon  some  altar  or  another — your  happiness !" 

Wanda  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  nothing. 
She  glanced  across  at  him.  He  knew  something.  But 
he  had  learned  nothing  from  Cartoner.  Of  that,  at 
least,  she  was  sure. 

"  Happiness,  or  a  hope  of  happiness,"  he  went  on, 
reflectively.  "  Perhaps  one  is  as  valuable  as  the  other. 
Perhaps  they  are  the  same  thing.  If  you  gain  a  happi- 
ness you  lose  a  hope,  remember  that.  It  is  not  always 
remembered  by  women,  and  very  seldom  by  men." 

"  Is  it  so  precious  ?  It  is  common  enough,  at  all 
events." 

203 


THE    VULTURES 

"  What  is  common  enough  ?"  he  asked,  absent- 
mindedly. 

"  Hope." 

"  Hope !  connais  pas !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden 
laugh.  "  You  must  ask  some  one  who  knows  more  about 
it.  I  am  a  man  of  sorrow,  Wanda ;  that  is  why  I  am  so 
gay." 

And  his  laugh  was  indeed  light-hearted  enough. 

"  The  rain  makes  one  feel  lonely,  that  is  all,"  he 
went  on,  as  if  seeking  to  explain  his  o^vn  humor.  "  Rain 
and  cold  and  half  a  dozen  drawbacks  to  existence  lose 
their  terrors  if  one  has  an  in-door  life  to  turn  to  and  a 
fire  to  sit  by.     That  is  why  I  am  here." 

And  he  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  the  burning  logs. 
Wanda  now  knew  that  he  had  something  to  tell  her — 
that  he  had  come  for  no  other  purpose.  And,  that  he 
should  be  delicate  and  careful  in  his  approach,  told  her 
that  it  was  of  Cartoner  he  had  come  to  speak.  While 
the  delicacy  and  care  showed  her  that  he  had  guessed 
something,  it  also  opened  up  a  new  side  to  his  character. 
For  the  susceptibilities  of  men  and  women  who  have 
passed  middle  age  are  usually  dull,  and  often  quite 
dead,  to  the  sensitiveness  of  younger  hearts.  It  almost 
seemed  that  he  divined  that  Wanda's  heart  was  sensitive 
and  sore,  like  an  exposed  nerve,  though  she  showed  the 
world  a  quiet  face,  such  as  the  Bukatys  had  always 
shown  through  as  long  and  grim  a  family  history  as  the 
world  has  known. 

"  Do  you  not  ever  feel  lonely  in  this  great  room  ?" 
he  asked,  looking  round  at  the  bare  walls,  which  still 
showed  the  dim  marks  left  by  the  portraits  that  had 
gone  to  grace  an  imperial  gallery. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  answered  Wanda.  She  followed 
his  glance  round  the  room,  wondering,  perhaps,  if  the 

204 


OGEtJR    VOLANT 

rest  of  her  life  was  to  be  weighed  down  by  the  sense  of 
loneliness  which  had  come  over  her  that  day  for  the 
first  time. 

Deulin,  like  the  majority  of  Frenchmen,  had  certain 
mental  gifts,  usually  considered  to  be  the  special  priv- 
ilege of  women.  He  had  a  feminine  way  of  skirting  a 
subject — of  walking  round,  as  it  were,  and  contem- 
j)lating  it  from  various  side  issues,  as  if  to  find  out  the 
best  approach  to  it. 

"  The  worst  of  Warsaw,"  he  said,  "  is  its  dulness. 
The  theatres  are  deplorable.  You  must  admit  that. 
And  of  society,  there  is,  of  course,  none.  I  have  even 
tried  a  travelling  circus  out  by  the  Mokotow.  One  must 
amuse  one's  self." 

He  looked  at  her  furtively,  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of 
having  to  amuse  himself,  and  remembered  too  late  how 
much  the  confession  might  mean. 

"  It  was  sordid,"  he  continued.  "  One  wondered  how 
the  performers  could  be  content  to  risk  their  lives  for 
the  benefit  of  such  a  small  and  such  an  undistinguished 
audience.  There  was  a  trapeze  troupe,  however,  who  in- 
terested me.  There  was  a  girl  with  a  stereotyped  smile 
— like  cracking  nuts.  There  was  a  young  man  whose 
conceit  took  one's  breath  away.  It  was  so  hard  to 
reconcile  such  preposterous  vanity  with  the  courage  that 
he  must  have  had.  And  there  was  a  large,  modest  man 
who  interested  me.  It  was  really  he  who  did  all  the 
work.  It  was  he  who  caught  the  others  when  they 
swung  across  the  tent  in  mid-air.  He  was  very  steady 
and  he  was  usually  the  wrong  way  up,  hanging  by  his 
heels  on  a  swinging  trapeze.  He  had  the  lives  of  the 
others  in  his  hands  at  every  moment.  But  it  was  the 
otliers  who  received  the  applause — the  nut-cracker  girl 
who  pirouetted;  and  the  vain  man  who  tapped  his  chest 

205 


THE     VULTUEES 

and  smiled  condescendingly.  But  the  big  man  stood  in 
the  background,  scarcely  bowing  at  all,  and  quite  for- 
getting to  smile.  One  could  see  from  the  expression 
of  his  patient  face  that  he  knew  it  did  not  matter  what 
he  did,  for  no  one  was  looking  at  him — which  was  only 
the  truth.  Then,  when  the  applause  was  over,  he  turned 
and  walked  away,  heavy-shouldered  and  rather  tired — ■ 
his  day's  work  done.  And,  I  don't  know  why,  I  thought 
— of  Cartoner." 

She  expected  the  name.  Perhaps  she  wished  for  it, 
though  she  never  would  have  spoken  it  herself.  She  had 
yet  to  learn  to  do  that. 

"  Yes,"  said  Deulin,  after  a  pause,  pursuing,  it  would 
appear,  his  own  thoughts,  "  the  world  would  get  on  very 
vrell  without  its  talkers.  No  great  man  has  ever  been  a 
great  talker.     Have  you  noticed  that  in  history  ?" 

Wanda  made  no  answer.  She  was  still  waiting  for 
the  news  that  he  had  to  tell  her.  The  logs  on  the  fire 
fell  about  with  a  crackle,  and  Deulin  rose  to  put  them 
in  order.  While  thus  engaged  he  continued  his  mono- 
logue. 

"  I  suj)pose  that  is  why  I  feel  lonely  this  afternoon. 
In  a  sense,  I  am  alone.  Cartoner  has  gone,  you  knowc 
He  has  left  Warsaw." 

Deulin  glanced  at  the  mirror  over  the  mantel-piece, 
and  if  he  had  had  any  doubts  they  were  now  laid  aside, 
for  there  was  only  gladness  in  Wanda's  face.  It  was 
good  news,  then.  And  Deulin  was  clever  enough  to 
know  the  meaning  of  that. 

"  Gone !"  she  said,    "  I  am  very  glad." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Deulin,  gravely,  as  he  returned  to 
his  chair.  "  It  is  a  good  thing.  I  left  him  this  morn- 
ing, placidly  preparing  to  depart  at  half  an  hour's 
warning.    He  was  packing,  with  that  repose  of  manner 

206 


C(EUR    VOLANT 

which  jou  have  perhaps  noticed.  Better  than  Vespers, 
better  than  absolution,  is  Cartoner's  repose  of  manner 
— for  me,  bien  entendu.  But,  then,  I  am  not  a  devout 
man." 

"  Then  you  have  done  what  I  asked  you  to  do,"  said 
Wanda,  "  some  time  ago,  and  I  am  very  grateful." 

"  Some  time  ago  ?    It  was  only  yesterday." 

"  Was  it  ?  It  seems  more  than  that,"  said  Wanda. 
And  Deulin  nodded  his  head  slowly. 

"  I  was  able  to  give  him  some  information  which  made 
him  change  his  plans  quite  suddenly,"  he  explained. 
"  So  he  packed  up  and  went.  He  had  not  much  to  pack. 
We  travel  light — he  and  I.  We  have  no  despatch- 
boxes  or  note-books  or  diaries.  What  we  remember  and 
forget  we  remember  and  forget  in  our  ow^n  heads. 
Though  I  doubt  whether  Cartoner  forgets  an3i:hing." 

"  And  you  ?"  asked  Wanda,  turning  upon  him 
quickly. 

"  I  ?  Oh  !  I  do  my  best,"  he  said,  lightly.  "  But  if 
you  desire  to  forget  anything  you  should  begin  early. 
It  is  not  a  habit  acquired  in  later  life." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke  and  looked  at  the  clock.  He  had 
a  habit  of  peering  and  contracting  his  round  brown  eyes 
which  made  many  people  think  that  he  was  short- 
sighted. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  w^ill  wait  for  the  Mangles,"  he  said. 
"  Especially  Julie.  I  do  not  feel  in  the  humor  for 
Julie.  By-the-w^ay — "  He  paused,  and  contemplated 
the  fire  thoughtfully.  "  You  never  talk  politics,  I  know. 
With  the  ]\rangles  you  may  go  further,  and  not  even 
talk  of  politicians.  It  is  no  affair  of  theirs  that  Car- 
toner  may  have  quitted  Warsaw — you  understand  ?" 

"  I  should  have  thought  Mr.  Joseph  Mangles  the  in-" 
carnation  of  discretion,"  said  Wanda. 

207 


THE    y  U  L  T  U  K  E  s 

"  Ah !  You  have  found  out  Mangles,  have  you  ?  I 
wonder  if  you  have  found  us  all  out.  Yes,  Mangles  is 
discreet,  but  IsTetty  is  not.  I  call  her  ISTetty — well,  be- 
cause I  regard  her  with  a  secret  and  consuming  pas- 
sion." 

"  And  have  an  equally  secret  and  complete  contempt 
for  her  discretion." 

"  Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  and  turned  to  look  at  her 
again.  "  Have  I  concealed  my  admiration  so  success- 
full}^  as  that?  Perhaps  I  have  overdone  the  conceal- 
ment." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  overdone  the  contempt,"  sug- 
gested Wanda.  "  She  is  probably  more  discreet  than 
you  think,  but  I  shall  not  put  her  to  the  test." 

"  You  see,"  said  Deulin,  in  an  explanatory  way, 
"  Cartoner  may  have  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  leaving 
without  drum  or  trumpet.  You  and  I  are  the  only  per- 
sons in  Warsaw  who  know  of  his  departure,  except  the 
people  in  the  jDassport-office  —  and  the  others,  whose 
business  it  is  to  watch  us  all.  You  have  a  certain  right 
to  know;  because  in  a  sense  you  brought  it  about,  and 
it  concerns  the  safety  of  your  father  and  Martin.  So 
I  took  it  upon  myself  to  tell  you.  I  was  not  instructed 
to  do  so  by  Cartoner.  I  have  no  message  of  politeness 
to  give  to  any  one  in  Warsaw.  Cartoner  merely  saw 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  go,  and  to  go  at  once ;  so  he  went 
at  once.  And  with  a  characteristic  simplicity  of  pur- 
pose, he  ignored  the  little  social  trammels  which  the 
majority  of  mankind  know  much  better  than  they  know 
their  Bible,  and  follow  much  more  closely.  He  was  too 
discreet  to  call  and  say  good-bye — knowing  the  ways  of 
servants  in  this  country.  He  will  be  much  too  discreet 
to  send  a  conge  card  by  post,  knowing,  as  he  does,  the 
Warsaw  post-office." 

208 


C(EUK     VOLANT 

He  took  np  his  hat  as  he  sat,  and  broke  suddenly  into 
his  light  and  pleasant  laugh. 

"  You  are  wondering,"  he  said,  "  why  I  am  taking 
this  unusual  course.  It  is  not  often,  I  know,  that  one 
speaks  well  of  one's  friend  behind  his  back.  It  is  six 
for  Cartoner  and  half  a  dozen  for  myself.  To  begin 
with,  Cartoner  is  my  friend.  I  should  not  like  him  to 
be  misunderstood.  Also,  I  may  do  the  same  at  any  mo- 
ment myself.  We  are  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow. 
Sometiri.GS  we  remember  our  friends  and  sometimes  we 
forget  them." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Wanda,  shaking  hands,  "  you 
are  cautious.    You  make  no  promises." 

"And  therefore  we  break  none,"  he  answered,  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold. 

He  had  hardly  gone  before  ISTetty  entered  the  room, 
followed  closely  by  Mr.  Mangles.  She  was  prettily 
dressed.  She  appeared  to  be  nervous  and  rather  shy. 
The  two  girls  shook  hands  in  silence.  Joseph  Mangles, 
standing  well  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  waited  till  the 
first  greeting  was  over,  and  then,  with  that  solemn  air 
of  addressing  an  individual  as  if  he  or  she  were  an  as- 
sembly, he  spoke. 

"  Princess,"  he  said,  "  my  sister  begs  to  be  excused. 
She  is  unable  to  take  tea  this  afternoon.  Last  night 
she  considered  herself  called  upon  to  make  a  demonstra- 
tion in  the  cause  that  she  has  at  heart.  She  smoked 
two  cigarettes  towards  the  emancipation  of  your  sex, 
princess.  Just  to  show  her  independence — to  show,  I 
surmise,  that  she  didn't  care  a — that  she  did  not  care. 
She  cares  this  afternoon.     She  has  a  headache." 

And  he  bowed  with  a  courtesy  with  which  some  old- 
fashioned  men  still  attempt  to  oppose  the  progress  of 
women. 

^*  209 


XXIY 

IN    THE    WEST    INDIA   DOCK   ROAD 

It  is  not  only  in  name  that  this  great 
thoroughfare  has  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
the  suggestion  of  a  tarry  atmosphere, 
and  that  mystery  which  hangs  about  the 
lives  of  simple  sailor  men.  To  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  foreigners  the 
word  London  means  the  West  India  Dock  Road,  and 
nothing  more.  There  are  sailors  sailing  on  every  sea 
who  cherish  the  delusion  that  they  have  seen  life 
and  London  when  they  have  passed  the  portals  of  one 
of  the  large  public-houses  of  the  West  India  Dock 
Road. 

There  are  others  who  are  not  sailors,  speaking  one  of 
the  half-dozen  tongues  of  eastern  Europe,  of  which  the 
average  educated  Briton  does  not  even  know  the  name, 
whose  lives  are  bounded  on  the  west  by  Aldgate  Pump, 
on  the  east  by  the  Dock  Gates,  on  the  north  by  Hounds- 
ditch,  and  on  the  south  by  St.  Katherine's  Dock 
and  Tower  Hill.  A  man  who  would  wish  to  knock  at 
any  door  in  this  district,  and  speak  to  him  who  opened 
it  in  his  native  tongue,  would  have  to  pass  five  years  of 
his  life  between  the  Baltic  and  the  Black  Sea,  the  Car- 
pathians and  the  Caucasus.  Galician,  Euthenian,  Po- 
lish, Magyar  would  be  required  as  a  linguistic  basis, 
while  variations  of  the  same  added  to  Russian  and  Ger- 

210 


IN"     THE     WEST     INDIA     DOCK     ROAD 

man  for  those  who  have  served  in  one  army  or  another, 
would  probably  be  useful. 

There  are  many  odd  trades  in  the  West  India  Dock 
Road,  and  none  of  them,  it  would  seem,  so  profitable  as 
the  fleecing  of  sailors.  But  by  a  queer  coincidence  the 
callings  mostly  savor  of  the  same  painful  process. 
They  run  to  leather  for  the  most  part,  and  the  manu- 
facture of  those  articles  de  luxe  which  are  chiefly 
composed  of  colored  morocco  and  gum.  There  is  also 
a  trade  in  furs.  Half-way  doMm  the  West  India  Dock 
Road,  where  the  shops  are  most  sordid,  and  the  bird- 
fanciers  congregate,  there  is  quite  a  large  fur  store,  of 
which  the  window,  clad  in  faded  red,  is  adorned  by  a 
white  rabbit-skin,  laid  flat  upon  a  fly-blown  newspaper, 
and  a  stuffed  sea-giill  with  a  singularly  knowing  squint. 

There  was  once  a  name  above  the  shop,  but  the  owner 
of  it,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  or  so  soon,  perhaps,  as  he 
realized  that  he  was  in  a  country  where  no  one  wants 
to  know  your  name,  or  cares  about  your  business,  had 
carelessly  painted  it  out  with  a  pot  of  black  paint  and 
a  defective  brush,  which  had  last  been  used  for  red. 

On  each  side  of  the  shop-window  is  a  door,  one  lead- 
ing to  the  warehouse  and  workshop  at  the  back. 
Through  this  door  there  passes  quite  a  respectable  com- 
merce. The  skin  of  the  domestic  cat,  drawn  hither  on 
coster  carts  from  the  remoter  suburbs,  passes  in  to  this 
door  to  emerge  from  it  later  in  neat  wooden  cases  ad- 
dressed to  enterprising  merchants  in  Trondhjem,  Ber- 
gen, Berlin,  and  other  northern  cities  from  which  tour- 
ists are  in  the  habit  of  carrying  home  mementoes  in  the 
shape  of  the  fur  and  feather  of  the  country.  There  is 
also  a  small  importation  of  American  fur  to  be  dressed 
and  treated  and  re-despatched  to  the  Siberian  fur  deal- 
ers from  whom  the  American  globe-trotter  prefers  to 

211 


THE    VULTUEES 

buy.  A  number  of  unhealthy  work-people — men,  wom- 
en, and  ancient  children — also  use  this  door,  entering 
by  it  in  the  morning,  and  only  coming  into  the  air  again 
after  dark.  They  have  yellow  faces  and  dusty  clothes. 
A  long  companionship  with  fur  has  made  them  hirsute ; 
for  the  men  are  unshaven,  and  the  women's  heads  are 
burdened  with  heavy  coils  of  black  hair. 

The  other  door,  which  is  little  used,  seems  to  be  the 
entrance  to  the  dwelling-house  of  the  nameless  for- 
eigner. On  the  left-hand  door-post  is  nailed  a  small 
tin  tablet,  whereon  are  inscribed  in  the  Russian  char- 
acter three  words,  which,  being  translated,  read :  "  The 
Brothers  of  Liberty."  As  no  one  of  importance  in  the 
West  India  Dock  Road  reads  the  Russian  characters, 
there  is  no  harm  done,  or  else  some  disappointment 
would  necessarily  be  experienced  by  the  passer-by  to 
think  that  any  one  so  nearly  related  to  liberty  should 
choose  to  live  in  that  spot.  ISTeither  would  the  Trafalgar 
Square  agitator  be  pleased  were  he  called  upon  to  sup- 
pose that  the  siren  whom  he  pursues  with  such  ardor  on 
rainy  Sunday  afternoons  could  ever  take  refuge  be- 
hind the  dingy  Turkey-red  curtain  that  hides  the  inner 
parts  of  the  furrier's  store  from  vulgar  gaze. 

"  That's  their  lingo,"  said  Captain  Cable  to  himself, 
with  considerable  emphasis,  one  dull  winter  afternoon 
when,  after  much  study  of  the  numbers  over  the  shop 
doors,  he  finally  came  to  a  stand  opposite  the  furrier's 
shop. 

He  stepped  back  into  the  road  to  look  up  at  the 
house,  thereby  imperilling  his  life  amid  the  traffic.  A 
costermonger  taking  cabbages  from  the  Borough  Mar- 
ket to  Limehouse  gave  the  captain  a  little  piece  of  his 
mind  in  the  choicest  terms  then  current  in  his  daily  in- 
tercourse with  man,  and  received  in  turn  winged  words 

212 


IN  THE  WEST  INDIA  DOCK  KOAD 

of  such  a  forcible  and  original  nature  as  to  send  him 
thoughtfully  eastward  behind  his  cart. 

"  That's  their  lingo,  right  enough,"  said  the  captain, 
examining  the  tin  tablet  a  second  time.  "  That's  Po- 
lish, or  I'm  a  Dutchman." 

•He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  wrong,  for  it  was  Rus- 
sian, but  this  was,  nevertheless,  the  house  he  sought. 
He  looked  at  the  dingy  building  critically,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and,  tilting  forward  his  high-crowned  hat,  he 
scratched  his  head  with  a  grimace  indicative  of  disap- 
pointment. It  was  not  to  come  to  such  a  house  as  this 
that  he  had  put  on  what  he  called  his  "  suit " ;  a  coat 
and  trousers  of  solid  pilot-cloth  designed  to  be  worn  as 
best  in  all  climates  and  at  all  times.  It  was  not  in  or- 
der to  impress  such  people  as  must  undoubtedly  live 
behind  those  faded  red  curtains  that  he  had  unpacked 
from  the  state-room  locker  his  shore-going  hat,  high, 
and  of  fair,  round  shape,  such  as  is  only  to  be  bought  in 
the  shadow  of  Limehouse  steeple. 

The  house  was  iminviting.  It  had  a  furtive,  dis- 
honest look  about  it.  Captain  Cable  saw  this.  He  was 
a  man  who  studied  weather  and  the  outward  signs  of  a 
man.  He  rang  the  bell  all  the  louder,  and  stood  square- 
ly on  the  threshold  until  the  door  was  opened  by  a  dirty 
man  in  a  dirty  apron,  who  looked  at  him  in  lugubrious 
silence. 

"  Name  of  Cable,"  said  the  captain,  turning  to  ex- 
pectorate on  the  pavement,  after  the  manner  of  far- 
sighted  sailors  who  are  about  to  find  themselves  on  car- 
pet. The  man  made  a  silent  grimace,  and  craned 
forward  with  an  interrogative  ear  held  ready  for  a 
repetition. 

"  Name  of  Cable,"  repeated  the  Captain.  "  Dirty!" 
he  added,  Just  by  way  of  inviting  his  hearer's  attention, 

213 


THE    VULTURES 

and  adding  that  personal  note  without  which  even  the 
shortest  conversation  is  apt  to  lose  interest. 

This  direct  address  seemed  to  have  the  desired  effect, 
for  the  man  stood  aside. 

"  Heave  ahead !"  he  said,  pointing  to  an  open  door. 
For  the  only  English  he  knew  was  the  English  they 
speak  in  the  Baltic.  The  captain  cocked  his  bright 
blue  eye  at  him,  his  attention  caught  by  the  familiar 
note.  And  he  stumped  along  the  passage  into  the  dim 
room  at  the  end.  It  was  a  small,  square  room,  with  a 
window  opening  upon  some  leads,  where  discarded  bot- 
tles and  blackened  moss  surrounded  the  remains  of  a 
sparrow.  The  room  was  full  of  men — six  or  seven  for- 
eign faces  were  turned  towards  the  new-comer.  Only 
one,  however,  of  these  faces  was  familiar  to  Captain 
Cable.  It  was  the  face  of  the  man  known  on  the  Vistula 
as  Kosmaroff. 

The  captain  nodded  to  him.  He  had  a  large  nodding 
acquaintance.  It  will  be  remembered  that  he  claimed 
for  his  hands  a  cleanliness  which  their  appearance  seem- 
ed to  define  as  purely  moral.  In  his  way  he  was  a 
proud  man,  and  stand-offish  at  that.  He  looked  slowly 
round,  and  found  no  other  face  to  recognize.  But  he 
looked  a  second  time  at  a  small,  dark  man  with  gentle 
eyes,  whose  individuality  must  have  had  something 
magnetic  in  it.  Captain  Cable  was  accustomed  to  judge 
from  outward  things.  He  picked  out  the  ruling  mind 
in  that  room,  and  looked  again  at  its  possessor  as  if 
measuring  himself  against  him. 

"  Take  a  chair,  captain,"  said  Kosmaroff,  who  him- 
self happened  to  be  standing.  He  was  leaning  against 
the  high,  old-fashioned  mantel-piece,  which  had  seen 
better  days — and  company — and  smoked  a  cigarette. 
He  was  clad  in  a  cheap,  ready-made  suit;  for  his  heart 

214 


IN  THE  WEST  INDIA  DOCK  ROAD 

was  in  his  business,  and  he  scraped  and  saved  every 
kopeck.  But  the  cheap  clothing  could  not  hide  that 
ease  of  movement  which  bespeaks  a  long  descent,  or  con- 
ceal the  slim  strength  of  limb  which  is  begotten  of  the 
fine,  clean,  hard  bone  of  a  fighting  race. 

The  captain  looked  round,  and  sought  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  with  which  to  dust  the  proffered  seat, 
mindful  of  his  "  suit." 

"  Do  you  speak  German,  captain  ?"  inquired  Kos- 
maroff. 

And  Captain  Cable  snorted  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Sailed  with  a  crew  of  Germans,"  he  answered ; 
'•'  I  understand  a  bit,  and  I  know  a  few  words.     I  know 

the  German  for  d n  your  eyes,  and  handy  words  like 

that." 

"  Then,"  said  Kosmaroff,  addressing  the  gentle-eyed 
man,  "we  had  better  continue  our  talk  in  German. 
Captain  Cable  is  a  man  who  likes  plain  dealing." 

He  himself  spoke  in  the  language  of  the  Fatherland, 
and  Captain  Cable  stiffened  at  the  sound  of  it,  as  all 
good  Britons  should. 

"  We  have  not  much  to  say  to  Captain  Cable,"  re- 
plied the  man  who  seemed  to  be  a  leader  of  the  Brothers 
of  Liberty.  He  spoke  in  a  thin  tenor  voice,  and  was 
what  the  French  call  chetif  in  appearance  —  a  weak 
man,  fighting  against  physical  disabilities  and  an  in- 
different digestion. 

"It  is  essential  in  the  first  place,"  he  continued, 
"  that  we  should  understand  each  other ;  we  the  con- 
querors and  you  the  conquered." 

With  a  gesture  he  divided  the  party  assembled  into 
two  groups,  the  smaller  of  which  consisted  only  of  Kos- 
maroff and  another.  And  then  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  with  his  woman-like,  reflective  smile. 

215 


THE     VULTURES 

"  We  the  Russians,  and  you  the  Poles.  I  fear  I  have 
not  made  myself  quite  clear.  I  understand,  however, 
that  we  are  to  trust  the  last  comer  entirely,  which  I 
do  with  the  more  confidence  that  I  perceive  that  he  un- 
derstands very  little  of  what  we  are  saying." 

Captain  Cable's  solid,  weather-beaten  face  remained 
rigid  like  a  figure-head.  He  looked  at  the  speaker  with 
an  ill-concealed  pity  for  one  who  could  not  express 
himself  in  plain  English  and  be  done  with  it. 

"  Our  circumstances  are  such  that  no  correspondence 
is  possible,"  continued  the  sj)eaker.  "  Any  agreement, 
therefore,  must  be  verbal,  and  verbal  agreements  should 
be  quite  clear — the  human  memory  is  so  liable  to  be 
affected  by  circumstances — and  should  be  repeated  sev- 
eral times  in  the  hearing  of  several  persons.  I  under- 
stand, therefore,  that,  after  a  period  of  nearly  twenty 
years,  Poland — is  ready  again." 

There  was  a  short  silence  in  that  dim  and  quiet  room. 

"  Yes,"  said  Kosmarofi^,  deliberately,  at  length. 

"  And  is  only  awaiting  her  opportunity." 

"  Yes." 

One  of  the  Brothers  of  Liberty,  possibly  the  secre- 
tary of  that  body,  which  owned  its  inability  to  put  any- 
thing into  writing,  had  provided  a  penny  bottle  of  ink 
and  a  sticky-looking,  red  pen-holder.  The  sj)eaker  took 
up  the  pen  suspiciously,  and  laid  it  down  again.  He 
rubbed  his  finger  and  thumb  together.  His  suspicions 
had  apparently  been  justifiable.  It  was  a  sticky  one ! 
Then  he  lapsed  into  thought.  Perhaps  he  was  think- 
ing of  the  pen-holder,  or  perhaps  of  the  history  of  the 
two  nations  represented  in  that  room.  He  had  a 
thouglitful  face,  and  history  is  a  fascinating  study,  es- 
pecially for  those  who  make  it.  And  this  quiet  man  had 
made  a  little  in  his  day. 

216 


IN     THE     WEST     INDIA     DOCK    ROAD 

"  An  opportunity  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  define,"  he 
said  at  length.  "  Any  event  may  turn  out  to  be  one. 
But,  so  far  as  we  can  judge,  Poland's  opportunity  must 
lie  in  two  or  three  possible  events  at  the  most.  One 
would  be  a  war  with  England.  That,  I  am  afraid,  I 
cannot  bring  about  just  yet." 

He  spoke  quite  seriously,  and  he  had  not  the  air  of 
a  man  subject  to  the  worst  of  blindnesses — the  blindness 
of  vanity. 

"  We  have  all  waited  long  enough  for  that.  We  have 
done  our  best  out  on  the  frontier  and  in  the  English 
press,  but  cannot  bring  it  about.  It  is  useless  to  wait 
any  longer.  The  English  are  fiery  enough — in  print — 
and  ready  enough  to  fight — in  Fleet  Street.  In  Rus- 
sia we  have  too  little  journalism — in  England  they  have 
too  much." 

Captain  Cable  yawned  at  this  juncture  with  a  mari- 
time frankness. 

"  Another  opportunity  would  be  a  social  upheaval," 
said  the  Russian,  drumming  on  the  table  with  his  slim 
fingers.  "  The  time  has  not  come  for  that  yet.  A  third 
alternative  is  a  mishap  to  a  crowned  head — and  that  we 
can  offer  to  you." 

Kosmaroff  moved  impatiently. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  heard  that 
talk  for  the  last  ten  years.  Have  you  brought  me 
across  Europe  to  talk  of  that  ?" 

The  Russian  looked  at  him  calmly,  stroking  his  thin, 
black  mustache,  and  waited  till  he  had  finished  speak- 
ing. 

"  Yes — that  is  all  I  have  to  propose  to  you — but  this 
time  it  is  more  than  talk.  You  may  take  my  word  for 
that.  This  time  we  shall  succeed.  But,  of  course,  we 
want  money,  as  usual.     Ah!  what  a  different  world 

217 


THE     VULTUEES 

this  would  be  if  the  poor  could  only  be  rich  for  one 
hour.  We  want  five  thousand  roubles.  I  understand 
you  have  control  of  ten  times  that  amount.  If  Poland 
will  advance  us  five  thousand  roubles  she  shall  have 
her  opportunity — and  a  good  one — in  a  month  from 
now." 

He  held  up  his  hand  to  command  silence,  for  Kos- 
maroff,  with  eyes  that  suddenly  blazed  in  anger,  had 
stepped  forward  to  the  table,  and  was  about  to  inter- 
rupt. And  Kosmaroff,  who  was  not  given  to  obedience, 
2:)aused,  he  knew  not  why. 

"  Think,"  said  the  other,  in  his  smooth,  even  voice — 
"  one  month  from  now,  after  waiting  twenty  years.  In 
a  month  you  yourself  may  be  in  a  very  different  posi- 
tion to  that  you  now  occupy.  You  commit  yourselves  to 
nothing.  You  do  not  even  give  ground  for  the  con- 
clusion that  the  Polish  party  ever  for  a  moment  ap- 
proved of  our  methods.  Our  methods  are  our  own  af- 
fair, as  are  the  risks  we  are  content  to  run.  We  have 
our  reasons,  and  we  seek  the  approval  of  no  man." 

There  was  a  deadly  coldness  in  the  man's  manner 
which  seemed  to  vouch  for  the  validity  of  those  reasons 
which  he  did  not  submit  to  the  judgment  of  any. 

"  Eive  thousand  roubles,"  he  concluded.  "  And  in 
exchange  I  give  you  the  date — so  that  Poland  may  be 
ready." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Kosmaroff,  who  had  regained  his 
composure  as  suddenly  as  he  had  lost  it.  "  I  decline — 
for  myself  and  for  the  whole  of  Poland.  We  play  a 
cleaner  game  than  that." 

He  turned  and  took  up  his  hat,  and  his  hand  shook  as 
he  did  it. 

"  If  I  did  not  know  that  you  are  a  patriot  according 
to  your  lights — if  I  did  not  know  something  of  your 

218 


IN     THE  WEST  INDIA  DOCK  ROAD 

story,  and  of  those  reasons  that  you  do  not  give — I 
should  take  you  by  the  throat  and  throw  you  out  into 
the  street  for  daring  to  make  such  a  proposal  to  me/' 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  To  a  deserter  from  a  Cossack  regiment,"  suggested 
the  other. 

"  To  me,"  repeated  Kosmaroff,  touching  himself  on 
the  breast  and  standing  at  his  full  height.  'No  one 
spoke,  as  if  the  silent  s]3ell  of  History  were  again  for  a 
moment  laid  upon  their  tongues. 

"  Captain  Cable,"  said  Kosmaroff,  "  you  and  I  have 
met  before,  and  I  learned  enough  of  you  then  to  tell  you 
now  that  this  is  no  place  for  you,  and  these  men  no 
company  for  us.     I  am  going — will  you  come  ?" 

"  I'm  agreeable,"  said  Captain  Cable,  dusting  his  hat. 

When  they  were  out  in  the  street,  he  turned  to  Kos- 
maroff and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  bright  and 
searching  eyes. 

"  Who's  that  man  ?"  he  asked,  as  if  there  had  been 
only  one  in  the  room. 

"  I  do  not  know  his  name,"  replied  Kosmaroff. 

They  were  standing  on  the  doorstep.  The  dirty  man 
had  closed  the  door  behind  them,  and,  turning  on  his 
heel,  Kosmaroff  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  dusty  wood- 
work of  it.  Half  absent-mindedly  he  extended  one  fin- 
ger and  made  a  design  on  the  door.  It  was  not  unlike 
a  Greek  cross. 

"  That  is  who  he  is,"  he  said. 

Captain  Cable  followed  the  motion  of  his  compan- 
ion's finger. 

"  I've  heard  of  him,"  he  said.  "  And  I  heard  his 
voice — sort  of  soft-spoken — on  Hamburg  quay  One 
night,  many  years  ago.  That  is  why  I  refused  the  job 
and  came  out  with  you." 

219       ' 


xxy 

THE    CAPTAIN'S    STOKY 

|OEE  especially  in  northern  countries 
nature  lays  her  veto  upon  the  activitjr 
of  men,  and  winter  calls  a  truce  even 
to  human  strife.  Cartouer  awaited  or- 
ders in  London,  for  all  the  world  was 
dimly  aware  of  something  stirring  in 
the  north,  and  no  one  knew  what  to  expect  or  where  to 
look  for  the  unexpected. 

It  was  a  cold  winter  that  year,  and  the  Baltic  closed 
early.  Captain  Cable  chartered  the  Minnie  in  the 
coasting  trade,  and  after  Christmas  he  put  her  into 
one  of  the  cheaper  dry-docks  down  the  river  towards 
Rotherhithe.  His  ship  was,  indeed,  in  dry-dock  when 
the  captain  oi^ened  with  the  Brothers  of  Liberty  those 
negotiations  which  came  to  such  a  sudden  and  untow- 
ard end. 

Paul  Deulin  wi-ote  one  piteous  letter  to  Cartoner,  full 
of  abuse  of  the  cold  and  wet  weather.  "  If  the  winter 
would  only  set  in,"  he  said,  "  and  dry  things  up  and 
freeze  the  river,  which  has  overflowed  its  banks  almost 
to  the  St.  Petersburg  Station,  on  the  Praga  side,  life 
would  perhaps  be  more  endurable." 

Then  the  silence  of  the  northern  winter  closed  over 
him  too,  and  Cartoner  wrote  in  vain,  hoping  to  re- 
ceive some  small  details  of  the  Bukatys  and  perhaps  a 

220 


THE     CAPTAIK'S     STORY 

mention  of  Wanda's  name.  Bnt  liis  letters  never  reach- 
ed Warsaw,  or  if  tliey  travelled  to  the  banks  of  the 
Vistula  they  were  absorbed  into  that  playful  post-office 
where  little  goes  in  and  less  comes  out. 

There  were  others  besides  Cartonei*  who  were  win- 
tering in  London  who  likewise  laid  aside  their  news- 
paper with  a  sigh  half  weariness,  half  relief,  to  find  that 
their  parts  of  the  world  were  still  quiet. 

"  History  is  assuredly  at  a  stand-still,"  said  an  old 
traveller  one  evening  at  the  club,  as  he  paused  at  Car^ 
toner's  table.  "  The  world  must  be  quiet  indeed  with 
you  here  in  London,  all  the  winter,  eating  your  head 
oflP." 

"  I  am  waiting,"  replied  Cartoner. 

"  What  for  ?"  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  placidly,  continuing  his 
dinner. 

Later  on  he  returned  to  his  rooms  in  Pall  Mall.  He 
was  a  great  reader,  and  was  forced  to  follow  the  daily 
events  in  a  dozen  different  countries  in  a  dozen  different 
languages.  He  was  surrounded  by  newspapers,  in  a 
deep  arm-chair  by  the  table,  when  that  came  for  which 
he  was  waiting.  It  came  in  the  form  of  Captain  Cable 
in  his  shore-going  clothes.  The  little  sailor  was  ushered 
in  by  the  well-trained  servant  of  this  bachelor  house- 
hold without  surprise  or  comment. 

Cartoner  made  him  welcome  with  a  cigar  and  an  offer 
of  refreshment,  which  was  refused.  Captain  Cable 
knew  that  as  you  progress  upward  in  the  social  scale 
the  refusal  of  refreshment  becomes  an  easier  matter 
until  at  last  you  can  really  do  as  you  like  and  not  as 
etiquette  dictates,  while  to  decline  the  beggar's  pint  of 
beer  is  absolute  rudeness. 

"  We've  always  dealt  square  by  eacH  other,  you  and 

.  221 


THE     VULTUKES 

r,"  said  the  captain,  when  he  had  lighted  his  cigar. 
Then  he  fell  into  a  reminiscent  humor,  and  presently 
broke  into  a  chuckling  laugh. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  them  Dons  would  have 
had  me  up  against  the  wall  and  shot  me,  sure  as  fate," 
he  said,  bringing  his  hand  down  on  his  knee  with  a  keen 
sense  of  enjoyment.  "  That  was  ten  years  ago  last 
l!^ovember,  when  the  Minnie  had  been  out  of  the  build- 
er's yard  a  matter  of  six  months." 

"  Yes,**  said  Cartoner,  putting  the  dates  carefully 
together  in  his  mind.  It  seemed  that  the  building  of  the 
Minnie  was  not  the  epoch  upon  which  he  reckoned  his 
periods. 

"  She's  in  Morrison's  dry-dock  now,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, who  in  a  certain  Avay  was  like  a  young  mother. 
Eor  him  all  the  topics  were  but  a  number  of  by-ways 
leading  ultimately  to  the  same  centre.  "  You  should  go 
down  and  see  her,  Mr.  Cartoner.  It's  a  big  dock.  You 
can  walk  right  round  her  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of 
the  dock  and  see  her  finel}^" 

Cartoner  said  he  would.  They  even  arranged  a  date 
on  which  to  carry  out  this  plan,  and  included  in  it  an 
inspection  of  the  Mi7inie's  new  boiler.  Then  Captain 
Cable  remembered  what  he  had  come  for,  and  the  plan 
was  never  carried  out  after  all. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you've  a  reckoning  against  rae, 
Mr.  Cartoner.  I  have  never  done  you  a  good  turn  that 
I  know  of,  and  you  saved  my  life,  I  believe,  that  time — 
you  and  that  Frencliman  who  talks  so  quick,  Moonseer 
Deulin — that  time,  over  yonder." 

And  he  nodded  his  head  towards  the  southwest  with 
the  accuracy  of  one  who  never  loses  his  bearings.  Eor 
there  are  some  people  who  always  know  which  is  the 
north;  and  others  who,  if  asked  suddenly,  do  not  know 

222 


THE     CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

their  left  band  from  their  right ;  and  others,  again,  who 
saj — or  shout — that  all  men  are  created  equal. 

"I've  been  done,  Mr.  Cartoner — that  is  what  I've 
come  to  tell  you.  Me  that  has  always  been  so  smart  and 
has  dealt  straight  by  other  men.  Done,  hoodwinked, 
tricked — same  as  a  Sunday-school  teacher.  And  I  can 
do  you  a  good  turn  by  telling  you  about  it ;  and  I  can 
do  the  other  man  a  bad  turn,  which  is  what  I  want  to 
do.  Besides,  it's  dirty  work.  Me,  that  has  always 
kept  my  hands — " 

He  looked  at  his  hands,  and  decided  not  to  pursue 
the  subject. 

"  You'll  say  that  for  me,  Mr.  Cartoner — you  that 
has  known  me  ten  vears  and  more." 

"  Yes,  I'll  say  that  for  you,"  answered  Cartoner, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  They  did  me !"  cried  the  captain,  leaning  forward 
and  banging  his  hand  down  on  the  table,  "  with  the  old 
trick  of  a  bill  of  lading  lost  in  the  post  and  a  man  in  a 
gold-laced  hat  that  came  aboard  one  night  and  said 
he  was  a  government  oificial  from  the  Arsenal  come  for 
the  government  stuff.  And  it  wasn't  government  stuff, 
and  he  wasn't  a  government  official.    It  was — " 

Captain  Cable  paused  and  looked  carefully  round  the 
room.  He  even  looked  up  to  the  ceiling,  from  a  long 
habit  of  living  beneath  deck  skylights. 

"  Bombs !"  he  concluded — "  bombs  !" 

Then  he  went  further,  and  qualified  the  bombs  in 
terms  which  need  not  be  set  down  here. 

"  You  know  me  and  you  loiow  the  Minnie,  Mr.  Car- 
toner !"  continued  the  angry  sailor.  "  She  was  special- 
ly built  with  large  hatches  for  machinery,  and — well, 
guns.  She  was  built  to  carry  explosives,  and  there's 
not  a  man  in  London  will  insure  her.    Well,  we  got  into 

223 


THE    VULTURES 

the  way  of  carrying  war  material.  It  was  only  natural, 
being  built  for  it.  But  you'll  bear  me  out,  and  there  are 
others  to  bear  me  out,  that  we've  only  carried  clean  stuff 
up  to  now — plain,  honest,  fighting  stuff  for  one  side  or 
the  other.  Always  honest — revolutions  and  the  like, 
and  an  open  fight.    But  bombs — " 

And  here  again  the  captain  made  use  of  nautical 
terms  which  have  no  place  on  a  polite  page. 

"  There's  bombs  about,  and  it's  me  that  has  been 
carrying  them,"  he  concluded.  "  That  is  what  I  have 
got  to  tell  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  asked  Cartoner,  in  his  gentle 
and  soothing  way.  > 

The  captain  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  and  crossed 
one  leg  over  the  other. 

"  Know  the  Johannis  Bulwark,  in  Hamburg  ?" 

Cartoner  nodded. 

''  Know  the  Seemannshaus  there  ?" 

"  Yes.  The  house  that  stands  high  up  among  the 
trees  overlooking  the  docks." 

"  That's  the  place,"  said  Captain  Cable.  "  Well,  one 
night  I  was  up  there,  on  the  terrace  in  front  of  the 
house  where  the  sailors  sit  and  spit  all  day  waiting  to 
be  taken  on.  Got  into  Hamburg  short-handed.  I  was 
picking  up  a  crew.  Kot  the  right  time  to  do  it,  you'll 
say,  after  dark,  as  times  go  and  forecastle  hands  pan 
out  in  these  days.  Well,  1  had  my  reasons.  You  can 
pick  up  good  men  in  Hamburg  if  you  go  about  it  the 
right  way.  A  man  comes  up  to  me.  Remembered  me, 
he  said ;  had  sailed  with  me  on  a  voyage  when  we  had 
machinery  from  the  Tyne  that  was  too  big  for  us,  and 
we  couldn't  get  the  hatches  on.  We  sailed  after  night- 
fall, I  recollect,  with  hatches  off,  and  had  the  seas  slop- 
ping in  before  the  morning.     He  remembered  it,  he 

2H 


THE     CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

said.  And  he  asked  me  if  it  was  true  that  I  was  goin' — 
well,  to  the  port  I  was  bound  for.  And  I  said  it  was 
God's  truth.  Then  he  told  me  a  long  varn  of  two  cases 
outshipped  that  was  lying  down  at  the  wharf.  Trans- 
shipment goods  on  a  through  bill  of  lading.  And  the 
bill  of  lading  gone  a  missing  in  the  post.  A  long  story, 
all  lies,  as  I  ought  to  have  known  at  the  time.  He  had  a 
man  with  him — forwarding  agent,  he  called  him.  This 
chap  couldn't  speak  English,  but  he  spoke  German,  and 
the  other  man  translated  as  we  went  along.  I  couldn't 
rightly  see  the  other  man's  face.  Little,  dark  man — 
with  a  queer,  soft  voice,  like  a  woman  wheedlin' !     Too 

d d  innocent,  and  I  ought  to  have  known  it.     Don't 

you  ever  be  wheedled  by  a  woman,  Mr.  Cartoner.  Got 
a  match  ?" 

Eor  the  captain's  cigar  had  gone  out.  But  he  felt 
quite  at  home,  as  he  always  did — this  unvarnished  gen- 
tleman from  the  sea — and  asked  for  what  he  wanted. 

"  Well,  to  make  a  long  yarn  short,  I  took  the  cases. 
Two  of  them,  size  of  an  orange-box.  We  were  full,  so 
I  had  them  in  the  state-room  alongside  of  the  locker 
where  I  lie  down  and  get  a  bit  of  sleep  when  I  feel  I 
want  it.  And  they  paid  me  well.  It  was  government 
stuff,  the  soft-spoken  man  said,  and  the  freight  would 
come  out  of  the  taxes  and  never  be  missed.  We  went 
into  heavy  weather,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  one  of 
the  cases  broke  adrift  and  got  smashed.  I  mended  it 
myself,  and  had  to  open  it.  Then  I  saw  that  it  was 
explosives.  Lie  number  one !  It  was  packed  in  wad- 
ding so  as  to  save  a  jar.  It  was  too  small  for  shells. 
Besides,  no  government  sends  loaded  shells  about, 
'cepting  in  war  time.  At  the  moment  I  did  not  think 
much  al)out  it.  It  was  heavy  weather,  and  I  had  a  new 
crew.  There  were  other  things  to  think  about.  And, 
*^  225 


THE     VULTUEES 

I  tell  you,  when  I  got  to  port,  a  chap  with  gold  lace  on 
him  came  aboard  and  took  the  stuff  away." 

Cartoner's  attention  was  aroused  now.  There  was 
something  in  this  story,  after  all.  There  might  be 
everything  in  it  when  the  captain  told  what  had  brought 
these  past  events  back  to  his  recollection. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  the  port  of  discharge," 
said  Captain  Cable,  "  because  in  doing  that  I  should 
run  foul  of  other  people  who  acted  square  by  me,  and 
I'll  act  square  by  them.  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  though. 
I  sighted  the  Scaw  light  on  that  voyage.  You  can  have 
that  bit  of  information — you,  that's  half  a  sailor.  You 
can  put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it." 

And  he  glanced  at  Cartoner's  cigarette  with  the  satis- 
faction of  a  conversationalist  who  has  pulled  off  a  good 
simile. 

"  'Safternoon,"  he  continued,  "  I  went  to  see  some 
people  about  a  little  job  for  the  Minnie.  She'll  be  out 
of  dock  in  a  fortnight.  You  will  not  forget  to  come 
down  and  see  her  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her,"  said  Cartoner.  "  Go  on 
with  your  story." 

"  Well,  this  afternoon  I  went  to  see  some  parties  that 
had  a  charter  to  offer  me.  Foreimers — everv  man  Jack 
of  them.  Spoke  in  German,  out  of  politeness  to  me. 
The  Lord  knows  what  they  would  have  spoken  if  I 
hadn't  been  there.  It  was  bad  enough  as  it  was.  But 
it  wasn't  the  lingo  that  got  me ;  it  was  the  voice.  '  Where 
have  I  heard  that  voice  V  thinks  I.  And  then  I  remem- 
bered. It  was  at  the  Seemannshaus,  at  Hamburg,  one 
dark  night.  '  You're  a  pretty  government  oflicial,'  I 
saj^s  to  myself,  sitting  quiet  all  the  time,  like  a  cat  in 
the  engine-room.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  the  job  at  any 
rate,  owing  to  that  voice,  which  I  had  never  forgotten, 

226 


THE     CAPTAIN'S     STORY 

and  yet  never  thought  to  hear  again.  But  while  the 
parley  voo  was  still  going  on,  np  jumps  a  man — the 
only  man  I  knew  there — name  beginning  with  a  K — 
don't  quite  remember  it.  At  any  rate,  up  he  jumps, 
and  says  that  that  room  was  no  place  for  me  nor  yet  for 
him.  Dare  say  you  know  the  man,  if  I  could  remember 
his  name.  Sort  of  thin,  dark  man,  with  a  way  of  carry- 
ing his  head — quarter-deck  fashion — as  if  he  was  a 
king  or  a  Hooghly  pilot.  Well,  we  gets  up  and  walks 
out,  proudlike,  as  if  we  had  been  insulted.  But  blessed 
if  I  knew  what  it  was  all  about.  '  Who's  that  man  V  I 
asks  when  we  were  in  the  street.  And  the  other  chap 
turns  and  makes  a  mark  upon  the  door,  which  he  rubs 
out  afterwards  as  if  it  was  a  hanging  matter.  '  That's 
who  that  is,'  he  says." 

Cartoner  turned,  and  with  one  finger  made  an  imag- 
inary design  on  the  soft  pile  of  the  table-cloth.  Cap- 
tain Cable  looked  at  it  critically,  and  after  a  moment's 
reflection  admitted  in  an  absent  voice  that  his  hopes  for 
eternity  were  exceedingly  small. 

"  You  are  too  much  for  me,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 
"  You  that  deal  in  politics  and  the  like." 

"  And  the  other  man's  name  is  Kosmaroff,"  said  Car- 
toner. 

"  That's  it — a  Russian,"  answered  Captain  Cable, 
rising;,  and  lookine;  at  the  clock.  His  movements  were 
energetic  and  very  quick  for  his  years.  He  carried  with 
him  the  brisk  atmosphere  of  the  sea  and  the  hardness 
of  a  life  which  tightens  men's  muscles  and  teaches  them 
to  observe  the  outward  signs  of  man  and  nature. 

"  It  beats  me,"  he  said.  "  But  I've  told  you  all  I 
can — all,  perhaps,  that  you  want  to  hear.  For  it  seems 
that  you  are  putting  two  and  two  together  already.  I 
think  I've  done  right.    At  any  rate,  I'll  stand  by  it.    It 

227 


THE    .VULTURES 

makes  me  imeasv  to  think  of  that  stuff  havinc;  been  be- 
low  the  Minnie's  hatches." 

"  It  makes  me  uneasy,  too,"  said  Cartoner.  "  Wait 
a  minute  till  I  put  on  another  coat.  I  am  going  out. 
We  mav  as  well  go  down  together." 

He  came  back  a  moment  later,  having  changed  his 
coat.  He  was  attaching  the  small  insignia  of  a  foreign 
order  to  the  lapel. 

"  Going  to  a  swarree  ?"  asked  Cable,  as  between  men 
of  the  world, 

"  I  am  going  to  look  for  a  man  I  want  to  see  to-night, 
and  I  think  I  shall  find  him,  as  you  say,  at  a  soiree," 
answered  Cartoner,  gravely. 

Out  in  the  street  he  paused  for  a  moment.  A  cab 
was  already  waiting,  having  dashed  up  from  the  club 
stand. 

"  By-the-way,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come 
down  and  see  the  Minnie  this  time.  I  shall  be  off  by 
the  eight  o'clock  train  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Going  foreign  ?"  asked  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  abroad  again,"  answered  Cartoner, 
and  there  was  a  sudden  ring  of  exultation  in  his  voice. 
Eor  this  was,  after  all,  a  man  of  action  who  had  strayed 
into  a  profession  of  which  the  strength  is  to  sit  still. 


xxyi 

IN  THE  SPEING 

^IIE  Mangles  passed  the  winter  at  War- 
saw, and  there  learned  the  usual  lesson 
of  the  traveller:  that  countries  reputed 
hot  or  cold  are  neither  so  hot  nor  so  cold 
as  thej  are  represented.  The  winter  was 
a  hard  one,  and  Warsaw,  of  all  European 
cities,  was,  perhaps,  the  last  that  any  lady  would  select 
to  pass  the  cold  months  in. 

"  I  liave  my  orders,"  said  Mangles,  rather  grimly, 
"  and  I  must  stay  here  till  I  am  moved  on.  But  the 
orders  say  nothing  about  you  or  E^etty.  Go  to  Kice  if 
you  like." 

And  Julie  seemed  half  inclined  to  go  southward. 
But  for  one  reason  or  another — reasons,  it  may  he,  put 
forward  by  Netty  in  private  conversation  with  her 
aunt — the  ladies  lino-ered  on. 

"  The  place  is  dull  for  you,"  said  Mangles,  "  now 
that  Cartoner  seems  to  have  left  us  for  good.  His  gay 
and  sparkling  conversation  would  enliven  any  circle." 

And  beneath  his  shaggy  brows  he  glanced  at  ISTetty, 
whose  smooth  cheek  did  not  change  color,  while  her 
eyes  met  his  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

"  You  seemed  to  have  plenty  to  say  to  each  other 
coming  across  the  Atlantic,"  she  said.  "  I  always  found 
YOU  with  your  heads  close  together  whenever  I  came  on 
deck." 

229 


TIIEVULTUKES 

"  Don't  think  we  sparkled  much,"  said  Joseph,  with 
his  under  lip  well  forward. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  Uncle  Joseph,"  said  Netty,  after- 
wards, to  Miss  Mangles,  "  to  suggest  that  we  should  go 
south,  and,  of  course,  it  would  be  lovely  to  feel  the  sun- 
shine again,  hut  we  could  not  leave  him,  could  we  ? 
You  must  not  think  of  me,  auntie ;  I  am  quite  happy 
here,  and  should  not  enjoy  the  Riviera  at  all  if  we  left 
uncle  all  alone  here." 

Julie  had  a  strict  sense  of  duty,  which,  perhaps,  Net- 
ty was  cognizant  of;  and  the  subject  was  never  really 
brought  under  discussion.  During  a  particularly  bad 
spell  of  weather  Mr.  Mangles  again  and  again  suggested 
that  he  should  be  left  at  Warsaw,  but  on  each  occasion 
Netty  came  forward  with  that  complete  unselfishness 
and  sweet  forethought  for  others  which  all  who  knew 
her  learned  to  look  for  in  her  every  action. 

Warsaw,  she  admitted,  was  dull,  and  the  surrounding 
country  simply  impossible.  But  the  winter  could  not 
last  forever,  she  urged,  with  a  little  shiver.  And  it 
really  was  quite  easy  to  keep  warm  if  one  went  for  a 
brisk  walk  in  the  morning.  To  prove  this  she  put  on 
the  new  furs  which  Joseph  had  bought  her,  and  which, 
were  very  becoming  to  her  delicate  coloring,  and  set  out 
full  of  energy.  She  usually  went  to  the  Saski  Gardens, 
the  avenues  of  which  were  daily  swept  and  kept  clear  of 
snow;  and  as  often  as  not,  she  accidentally  met  Prince 
Martin  Bukaty  there.  Sometimes  she  crossed  the  bridge 
to  Praga,  and  occasionally  turned  her  steps  down  the 
Bednarska  to  the  side  of  the  river  which  was  blocked  by 
ice  now,  Avintry  and  desolate.  The  sand-workers  were 
still  laboring,  though  navigation  was,  of  course,  at  a 
stand-still. 

Netty  never  saw  Kosmaroff,  however,  who  had  gone 

230 


IN     THE     SPRING 

as  suddenly  as  be  came — had  gone  out  of  her  life  as 
abruptly  as  be  burst  into  it,  leaving  only  the  memory 
of  that  high-water  mark  of  emotion  to  which  be  had 
raised  her.  Leaving  also  that  blankest  of  all  blanks  in 
the  feminine  heart,  an  unsatisfied  curiosity.  She  could 
not  understand  Kosmaroff,  any  more  than  she  could 
understand  Cartoner.  And  it  was  natural  that  she 
should,  in  consequence,  give  much  thought  to  them  both. 
There  w^as,  she  felt,  something  in  both  alike  which  she 
had  not  got  at,  and  she  naturally  wanted  to  get  at  it. 
It  might  be  a  sorrow,  and  her  kind  heart  drew  her  atten- 
tion to  any  hidden  thought  that  might  be  a  sorrow. 
She  might  be  able  to  alleviate  it.  At  any  rate,  being  a 
woman,  she,  no  doubt,  wanted  to  stir  it  up,  as  it  were, 
and  see  what  the  result  would  be. 

Prince  Martin  was  quite  different.  He  was  com- 
paratively easy  to  understand.  She  knew  the  symptoms 
well.  She  was  so  unfortunate.  So  many  people  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her,  through  no  fault  of  her  own. 
Indeed,  no  one  could  regret  it  more  than  she  did. 
She  did  not,  of  course,  say  these  things  to  her  aunt 
Julie,  or  to  that  dear  old  blind  stupid,  her  uncle,  who 
never  saw  or  understood  anything,  and  was  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  his  cigars  and  his  newspapers.  She  said  them 
to  herself — and,  no  doubt,  found  herself  quite  easy  to 
convince — as  other  people  do. 

Prince  Martin  was  very  gay  and  light-hearted,  too. 
If  he  was  in  love,  he  was  gayly,  frankly,  openly  in  love, 
and  she  hoped  that  it  w^ould  be  all  right — whatever  that 
might  mean.  In  the  mean  time,  of  course,  she  could  not 
help  it  if  she  was  always  meeting  him  when  she  went 
for  her  walk  in  the  Saski  Gardens.  There  w^as  no- 
v/here  else  to  walk,  and  it  w^as  to  be  supposed  that  he 
was  passing  that  way  by  accident.     Or  if  he  had  found 

231 


THE    VULTURES 

out  her  hours  and  came  tHere  on  purpose,  she  really 
could  not  help  it. 

Deulin  came  and  went  during  the  winter.  He  seemed 
to  have  business  now  at  Cracow,  now  at  St.  Petersburg. 
He  was  a  bad  correspondent,  and  talked  much  about 
himself,  without  ever  saying  much;  which  is  quite  a 
different  thing.  He  had  the  happy  gift  of  imparting  a 
wealth  of  useless  information.  When  in  Warsaw  he 
busied  himself  on  behalf  of  the  ladies,  and  went  so  far 
as  to  take  Miss  Mangles  for  a  drive  in  his  sleigh.  To 
l^etty  he  showed  a  hundred  attentions. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  she  said,  "  why  everybody  is 
so  kind  to  me." 

"  It  is  because  you  are  so  kind  to  everybody,"  he  an- 
swered, with  that  air  of  appearing  to  mean  more  than 
he  said,  which  he  seemed  to  reserve  for  I^etty. 

"  I  do  not  understand  Mr.  Deulin,"  said  ISTetty  to 
her  uncle  one  day.  "  Why  does  he  stay  here  ?  What  is 
he  doing  here  ?" 

"And  Joseph  P.  Mangles  merely  stuck  his  chin  for- 
ward, and  said  in  his  deepest  tones : 

"  You  had  better  ask  him !" 

"  But  he  would  not  tell  me." 

"  m." 

"  And  Mr.  Cartoner,"  continued  ISTetty,  "  I  under- 
stood he  was  coming  back,  but  he  does  not  seem  to  come. 
'No  one  seems  to  know.  It  is  so  diificult  to  get  informa- 
tion about  the  merest  trifles.  !N^ot  that  I  care,  of 
course,  who  comes  and  who  goes." 

"  Course  not,"  said  Mangles. 

After  a  pause,  ISTetty  looked  up  again  from  her  work. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  "  I  was  wondering  if  there  was 
anything  wrong  in  Warsaw." 

"  What  made  you  wonder  that  ?" 

232 


IN     THE     SPRING 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  feels,  sometimes,  as  if  there  were 
something  wrong.  Mr.  Cartoner  went  away  so  sud- 
denly. The  people  in  the  streets  are  so  odd  and  quiet. 
And  down  stairs  in  the  restaurant,  at  dinner,  I  see 
them  exchange  glances  when  the  Russian  officers  come 
into  the  room.  I  distrust  the  quietness  of  the  people, 
and — uncle — Mr.  Deulin's  gayety — I  distrust  that,  too. 
And  then  you ;  you  so  often  ask  us  to  go  away  and  leave 
you  here  alone." 

Mangles  laughed,  curtly,  and  folded  his  newspaper. 

"  Because  it  is  a  dull  hole,"  he  said,  "  that  is  why  I 
want  you  to  go  away.  It  has  got  on  your  nerves.  It  is 
because  you  have  not  lived  in  a  conquered  country  be- 
fore.    All  conquered  countries  are  like  that." 

Which  was  a  very  long  explanation  for  Joseph  Man- 
gles to  make.  And  he  never  again  proposed  that  Netty 
and  her  aunt  should  go  to  Nice.  But  Netty's  curiosity 
was  not  satisfied,  and  she  knew  that  Deulin  would  an- 
swer no  question  seriously.  Why  did  not  Kosmaroff 
come  back?  Why  did  Cartoner  stay  away?  As  soon 
as  etiquette  allowed,  she  called  at  the  Bukaty  Palace. 
She  made  an  excuse  in  some  illustrated  English  and 
American  magazines  which  might  interest  the  Princess 
Wanda.  But  there  was  no  one  at  home.  She  under- 
stood from  the  servant,  who  spoke  a  little  German,  that 
they  had  gone  to  their  country  house,  a  few  miles  from 
Warsaw. 

The  next  morning  Netty  went  for  a  walk  in  the  Saski 
Gardens.  The  weather  had  changed  suddenly.  It  was 
quite  mild  and  springlike.  At  last  the  grip  of  winter 
seemed  to  be  slackening.  There  were  others  in  the  gar- 
dens who  held  their  faces  up  to  the  sky,  and  breathed 
in  the  softer  air  with  a  sort  of  expectancy ;  who  seemed 
to  wonder  if  the  winter  had  really  broken,  or  if  this 

233 


THE     VULTURES 

should  only  prove  to  be  a  false  hope.  It  was  one  of  the 
first  days  in  March — a  month  wherein  all  nature  slowly 
stirs  after  her  long  sleep,  and  men  pull  themselves  to- 
gether to  new  endeavor.  The  majority  of  great  events 
in  the  world's  history  have  taken  place  in  the  spring 
months.  Is  not  the  Ides  of  March  written  large  in  the 
story  of  this  planet  ? 

I^etty  had  not  been  many  minutes  in  the  gardens 
when  Prince  Martin  came  to  her.  He  had  laid  aside 
his  fur  coat  for  a  lighter  cloak  of  English  make,  which 
made  him  look  thinner.  His  face,  too,  was  thin  and 
spare,  like  the  face  of  a  man  who  is  working  hard  at 
work  or  sport.  But  he  was  gay  and  light-hearted  as 
ever.  Neither  did  he  make  any  disguise  of  his  admira- 
tion for  Netty. 

"  It  is  three  days,"  he  said,  "  since  I  have  seen  you. 
And  it  seems  like  three  years," 

Which  is  the  sort  of  remark  that  can  only  be  ignored 
by  the  discreet.  Besides,  Prince  Martin  did  not  go  so 
far  as  to  state  why  the  three  days  had  been  so  tedious. 
It  might  be  for  some  other  reason  altogether. 

"  My  uncle  has  been  pressing  us  to  go  away,"  said 
Netty,  "  to  the  south  of  France,  to  Nice,  but — " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"  Well,"  answered  Netty,  after  a  pause,  "  you  see  for 
yourself — we  have  not  gone." 

"  It  is  a  very  selfish  hope — but  I  hope  you  will  stay," 
said  Prince  Martin.  He  looked  down  at  her,  and  the 
thought  of  her  possible  departure  caught  him  like  a 
vise.  He  was  a  person  of  impulse,  and  (which  is  not 
usual)  his  impulse  was  as  often  towards  good  as  towards 
evil.  She  looked,  besides  looking  pretty,  rather  small 
and  frail,  and  dependent  at  that  moment,  and  all  the 
chivalry  of  his  nature  was  aroused.    It  was  only  natural 

234 


IN    THE     SPKING 

that  he  should  think  that  she  had  all  the  qualities  he 
knew  Wanda  to  possess,  and,  of  course,  in  an  infinitely 
higher  degree.  Which  is  the  difference  hctween  one's 
own  sister  and  another  person's.  She  was  good,  and 
frank,  and  open.  The  idea  of  concealment  between  him- 
self and  her  was  to  be  treated  with  scorn. 

*'  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  if  at  any  time  there  is 
any  reason  why  you  cannot  stay." 

"  But  why  should  there  be  any  reason — "  she  began, 
and  a  quick  movement  that  he  made  to  look  round  and 
see  who  was  in  sight,  who  might  be  within  hearing, 
made  her  stop. 

"  Oh !  I  do  not  want  you  to  tell  me  anything.  I  do 
not  want  to  know,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  Which  was  the 
absolute  truth ;  for  politics  bored  her  horribly. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  laugh,  and  only  loved  her  all 
the  more,  for  persisting  in  her  ignorance  of  those  mat- 
ters which  are  always  better  left  to  men. 

"  I  almost  missed,"  he  said,  gayly,  "  an  excellent 
opportunity  of  holding  my  tongue." 

"  Onlv — "  began  ]^ettv,  as  if  in  continuation  of  her 
protest  against  being  told  anything. 

"Only  what?" 

"  Only — be  careful,"  she  said,  with  downcast  eyes. 
And,  of  course,  that  brought  him,  figuratively,  to  her 
feet.  He  vowed  he  would  be  careful,  if  it  was  for  her 
sake.  If  she  would  only  say  that  it  was  for  her  sake. 
And  at  the  moment  he  really  meant  it.  He  was  as  hon- 
est as  the  day.  But  he  did  not  know,  perhaps,  that  the 
best  sort  of  men  are  those  who  persistently  and  repeat- 
edly break  their  word  in  one  respect.  For  they  will 
vow  to  a  woman  never  to  run  into  danger,  to  be  careful, 
to  be  cowards.  And  when  the  danger  is  there,  and  the 
woman  is  not — their  vow  is  writ  in  water. 

235 


THE    VULTTJEES 

ITetty  tried  to  stop  him.  She  was  very  mucli  dis- 
tressed. She  almost  had  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  not 
quite.  She  put  her  gloved  hands  over  her  ears  to  stop 
them,  but  did  not  quite  succeed  in  shutting  out  his  voice. 
The  gloves  were  backed  with  a  dark,  fine  fur,  which 
made  her  cheeks  look  delicate  and  soft  as  a  peach. 

"  I  will  not  hear  you,"  she  said.  "  I  will  not.  I  will 
not." 

Then  he  seemed  to  recollect  something,  and  he 
stopped  short. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  quite  right.  I  have  no 
business  to  ask  you  to  hear  me.  I  have  nothing  to  offer 
you.  I  am  poor.  At  any  moment  I  may  be  an  outlaw. 
But  at  any  moment  I  may  have  more  to  offer  you. 
Things  may  go  well,  and  then  I  should  be  in  a  very 
different  position." 

Ketty  looked  away  from  him,  and  seemed  to  be  try- 
ing to  think.  Or,  perhaps,  she  was  only  putting  together 
recollections  which  had  all  been  thought  out  before. 
She  would  be  a  princess.  She  remembered  that.  She 
had  only  been  in  Europe  six  months,  and  here  Avas  a 
prince  at  her  feet.  But  there  were  terrible  drawbacks. 
Warsaw  was  one  of  them,  and  poverty,  that  greatest  of 
all  drawbacks,  was  the  other. 

"  I  can  tell  you  nothing  now,"  he  said.  "  But  soon, 
before  the  summer,  there  may  be  great  changes  in  Po-- 
land." 

Then  his  own  natural  instinct  told  him  that  position^, 
or  poverty,  wealth  or  success,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
cause  he  was  pleading.  He  did  not  even  know  whether 
Netty  was  rich  or  poor,  and  he  certainly  did  not  care. 

"  Wliat  did  you  mean,"  he  asked,  "  when  you  said 
'  Be  careful '  ?    What  did  you  mean — tell  me  ?" 

His  gay,  blue  eyes  were  serious  enough  now.     They 

236. 


IN    THE    SPRIKG 

were  alight  with  an  honest  and  good  love,  l^ever  of  a 
cold  and  calculating  habit,  he  was  reckless  of  observa- 
tion. He  did  not  care  who  saw.  He  would  have  taken 
her  hands  and  forced  her  to  face  him  had  she  not  held 
tbcm  behind  her  back.  She  was  singularly  calm  and 
self-possessed.  People  who  appear  nervous  often  rise 
to  the  occasion. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  meant,"  she  said ;  "  I  do  not 
know.  You  must  not  ask  me.  It  slipped  out  when  I 
was  not  thinking.  Oh !  please  be  generous,  and  do  not 
ask  me." 

By  some  instinct  she  had  leaped  to  the  right  mark. 
She  had  asked  a  Bukaty  to  be  generous. 

"  Some  day,"  he  said,  "  I  will  ask  you." 

And  he  walked  with  her  to  the  gate  of  the  gardens 
in  silence. 


XXYII 


A  SACRIFICE 


ISHOUGH  the  fine  weather  did  not  last, 
it  was  a  promise  of  better  things,  like 
the  letter  that  precedes  a  welcome  friend. 
After  it  the  air  seemed  warmer,  though 
snow  fell  again,  and  the  thermometer 
went  below  zero. 
Wanda  and  her  father  did  not  return  to  Warsaw  as 
they  had  intended. 

So  long  as  the  frost  holds,  the  country  is  endurable ; 
nay,  it  is  better  than  the  towns  on  these  great  plains  of 
eastern  Europe ;  but  when  the  thaw  comes,  and  each 
small  depression  is  a  puddle,  every  low-lying  field  a 
pond,  and  whole  plains  become  lakes,  few  remain  in  the 
villages  who  can  set  their  feet  upon  the  pavement.  The 
early  spring,  so  closely  associated  in  most  minds  with 
the  song  of  birds  and  the  budding  of  green  things,  is  in 
Poland  and  Russia  a  period  of  waiting  for  the  water  to 
drain  off  the  flat  land;  a  time  to  look  to  one's  thickest 
top-boots  in  these  countries,  where  men  and  women  are 
booted  to  the  knee,  and  every  third  house  displays  the 
shoemaker's  sign  upon  its  door-post. 

The  Bukatys'  country-house,  like  all  else  that  the  past 
had  left  them,  was  insignificant.  In  olden  days  it  had 
been  a  farm,  one  of  the  smallest,  used  once  or  twice 
during  the  winter  as  a  shooting-lodge ;  for  it  stood  in 

238 


A     SACRII'ICE 

the  midst  of  vast  forests.  It  was  not  really  ancient,  for 
it  had  been  built  in  the  days  of  Sobieski,  when  that 
rough  warrior  and  parvenu  king  built  himself  the  house 
in  the  valley  of  the  Vistula,  where  he  saw  all  his  great- 
ness vanish,  and  ended  his  days  in  that  grim  solitude 
which  is  the  inheritance  of  master-minds.  The  hand 
of  the  French  architect  is  to  be  detected  even  in  this 
farm;  for  Poland,  more  frankly  and  consciously  than 
the  rest  of  the  world,  drew  all  her  inspiration  and  her 
art  from  France.  Did  not  France  once  send  her  a  king  ? 
Was  not  Sobicski's  wife  a  Frenchwoman,  who,  more- 
over, ruled  that  great  fighter  with  her  little  finger, 
stronger  than  any  rod  of  iron?  If  ever  a  Frenchman 
was  artificially  made  from  other  racial  materials,  ho 
was  the  last  king  of  Poland,  Stanislas  Augustus  Ponia- 
towski. 

Built  on  raised  ground,  the  farm-house  was  of  stone. 
It  had  been  a  plain,  square  building ;  but  in  the  days  of 
Poniatowski  some  attempt  had  been  made  at  ornamen- 
tation in  the  French  style.  A  pavilion  had  been  built  in 
the  garden  amid  the  pine-trees.  A  sun-dial  had  been 
placed  on  the  lawn,  which  was  now  no  longer  a  la\^ai, 
but  had  lapsed  again  into  a  meadow.  The  cows  had 
polished  the  sun-dial  with  their  rough  sides,  while  the 
passage  of  cold  winters  and  wet  springs  had  left  the 
plaster  ornamentation  mossy  and  broken. 

Here,  amid  a  simple  people,  the  Bukatys  spent  a  por- 
tion of  the  year.  They  usually  came  in  the  winter, 
because  it  was  in  the  winter  they  were  needed.  The 
feudal  spirit,  which  was  strong  in  the  old  prince  and 
weaker  in  his  children,  has  two  sides  to  it ;  but  its 
enemies  have  only  remembered  one.  The  prince  took 
it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  it  was  his  duty  to  care  for 
his  peasants,  and  relieve  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power  the 

239 


THE    VULTUEES 

distress  which  came  upon  them  annually  with  the 
regularity  of  the  recurring  seasons.  With  a  long  winter 
and  a  wet  spring,  with  a  heavy  taxation,  and  a  standing 
bill  at  the  village  shop  kept  by  a  Jew,  and  the  village 
inn  kept  by  another,  these  peasants  never  had  any 
money.  And  so  far  as  liuman  foresight  can  perceive, 
there  seems  to  be  no  reason  why  they  ever  should. 

By  some  chain  of  reasoning,  which  assuredly  had  a 
flaw  in  it,  the  prince  seemed  to  have  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  put  into  the  world  to  help  his 
peasants,  and  those  who  were  noiv  no  longer  his  serfs. 
And,  though  he  spoke  to  them  as  if  they  were  of  a  dif- 
ferent creation  and  not  his  equals — as  the  Erencli  Rev- 
olution set  about  to  prove,  but  only  succeeded  in  prov- 
ing the  contrary — he  cared  for  their  bodies  as  he  would 
have  cared  for  a  troop  of  sheep.  He  only  saw  that  they 
were  hungry,  and  he  fed  them.  Wanda  only  saw  that 
tliere  were  among  them  sick  who  could  not  pay  for  a 
doctor,  and  could  not  have  gone  to  the  expense  of  obey- 
ing his  orders  had  they  called  one  in.  She  only  saw 
that  there  were  mothers  who  had  to  work  in  the  fields, 
while  their  children  died  of  infantine  and  comparative- 
ly simple  complaints  at  home,  because  their  rightful 
nurse  could  not  spare  the  time  to  nurse  them.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  the  roof  of  the  farm-house  leaked,  and 
that  the  cows  were  invited  to  feed  upon  the  front  lawn. 

Clad  in  a  sheepskin  coat,  with  great  jack-boots  flap- 
ping above  his  knees,  the  prince  spent  all  his  days  on 
horseback,  riding  from  house  to  house,  giving  a  little 
money  and  a  good  deal  of  sound  and  practical  advice, 
listening  to  the  old,  old  stories  of  undrained  land  and 
poor  crops,  of  bad  seed  and  broken  tools ;  and  cheering 
the  tellers  with  his  great  laugh  and  some  small  wit- 
ticism.   For  they  are  a  gay  people,  these  Poles,  through 

24Q 


A     SACRIFICE 

it  all.  "  lis  sont  legers,  actifs,  insouciants,"  said  N^a- 
poleon,  that  keenest  searcher  of  the  human  heart,  who 
knew  them  a  hundred  years  ago  when  their  troubles 
were  comparatively  fresh.  And  it  is  an  odd  thing  that 
adversity  rarely  breaks  a  man's  spirit,  but  often 
strengthens  it. 

Wanda  sometimes  rode,  but  usually  went  on  foot, 
and  had  more  than  enough  work  to  fill  the  days  now 
growing  longer  and  lighter.  She,  like  her  father,  was 
brisk  and  cheerful  in  her  well-doing — like  him,  she  was 
intolerant  of  anything  that  savored  of  laziness  or  lack 
of  spirit.  They  liked  the  simple  life  and  the  freedom 
from  the  restraint  that  hung  round  their  daily  existence 
in  Warsaw.  But  the  old  man  watched  the  weather, 
and  longed  to  be  about  larger  business,  which  alone 
could  satisfy  the  restless  spirit  of  activity  handed  down 
to  him  by  the  forefathers  who  had  stirred  all  Europe, 
and  spoken  fearlessly  to  kings. 

Wanda  Avas  not  sorry  when  the  thaw  gave  way  to  re- 
newed frost.  The  snow  lay  thickly  on  the  ground,  and 
weighed  down  the  branches  of  the  pines.  In  the  still- 
ness which  brooded  over  the  land  during  day  and  night 
alike  the  only  sound  they  ever  heard  was  the  sharp 
crack  of  a  branch  breaking  beneath  its  burden.  They 
had  lived  in  this  still  world  of  snow  and  forest  for  some 
weeks,  and  had  seen  and  heard  nothing  of  men. 

"  This  frost  cannot  last,"  said  the  prince.  "  The 
spring  must  come  soon,  and  then  we  shall  have  to  go 
back  to  the  world  and  its  business." 

But  the  world  and  the  business  thereof  did  not  wait 
until  the  brief  frost  was  over.  It  came  to  them  that 
same  night.  For  Kosmaroff  was  essentially  of  the  ac- 
tive world,  and  carried  with  him  wherever  he  went  the 
spirit  of  unrest. 

»«  241 


THE     VULTURES 

He  arrived  on  foot  soon  after  nine  o'clock.  He  was 
going  on  to  Warsaw  on  foot  the  same  night,  he  an- 
nounced, before  the  greetings  were  over. 

"  And  you  have  had  nothing  to  eat,"  said  Wanda, 
glancing  at  his  spare,  weather-beaten  face.  He  was  the 
impersonation  of  hardness  and  activity ;  a  man  in  ex- 
cellent physical  training,  inured  to  cold  and  every  hard- 
ship. He  had  simply  opened  the  front  door  and  walked 
in,  throwing  his  rough  sheepskin  coat  aside  in  the  outer 
hall.  The  snow  was  on  his  boots  nearly  to  the  knee. 
The  ice  hung  from  his  mustache  and  glistened  on  his 
eyebrows.  He  held  his  coarse  blue  handkerchief  in  his 
hand,  and  wiped  his  face  from  time  to  time  as  the  ice 
melted. 

"  ISTo,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  had  nothing  to  eat. 
But  the  servants  do  not  know  I  am  here.  I  saw  the 
lights  in  their  windows  at  the  other  end  of  the  house. 
I  would  rather  go  hungry  than  let  them  know  that  I 
am  here." 

"  You  will  not  go  hungry  from  this  house,"  said  the 
prince,  with  his  rather  fierce  laugh. 

"  I  will  get  you  what  you  want,"  said  Wanda,  light- 
ing a  candle.  "  There  are  no  servants,  however,  so 
you  need  not  think  of  that.  There  are  only  the  farm- 
er and  his  wife — and  my  maid,  who  is  English,  and 
silent." 

So,  before  telling  his  news,  KosmarofF  sat  down  and 
-ate,  while  Wanda  waited  on  him,  and  Prince  Bukaty 
poured  out  wine  for  this  rough  man  in  the  home- 
spun clothing  and  heavy  boots  of  the  Vistula  rafts- 
man, who  yet  had  the  manner  of  a  gentleman  and 
that  quiet  air  of  self-possession  in  all  societies  which 
is  not  to  be  learned  in  schools  nor  yet  acquired  at  any 
academy. 

242 


A     SACRIFICE 

"■  When  you  have  finished,"  said  Wanda,  "  you  can 
talk  of  your  affairs.    I  shall  leave  you  to  yourselves." 

"  Oh,  there  is  not  much  to  say,"  answered  Kosma- 
roff.  "  I  have  done  no  good  on  my  journey.  Things 
make  no  progress." 

"  You  expect  too  much,"  said  the  prince.  He  had 
helped  himself  to  a  glass  of  wine,  and  fingered  the  glass 
reflectively  as  he  spoke.  "  You  expect  the  world  to  move 
more  quickly  than  it  can.  It  is  old  and  heavy,  remem- 
ber that.  I  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  it,  with  my  two 
sticks.  You  would  never  make  a  diplomatist.  I  have 
heard  of  negotiations  going  forward  for  five  years,  and 
then  falling  through,  after  all.  What  would  think  of 
that?" 

Kosmarofi  smiled,  his  odd,  one-sided  smile,  and  cut 
himself  a  piece  of  bread.  There  was  a  faint  suggestion 
of  the  river-side  in  his  manner  at  table.  This  was  a  man 
into  whose  life  the  ceremony  of  sit-down  meals  had 
never  entered  largely.  He  ate  because  he  was  hungry — ■ 
not,  as  many  do,  to  pass  the  time. 

"  One  thing  I  came  to  tell  you  I  can  tell  you  now," 
he  said.  "  In  fact,  it  is  better  that  the  princess  should 
hear  it ;  for  in  a  way  it  concerns  her  also.  But,  please, 
do  not  stand,"  he  added,  turning  to  her.  "  I  have  all 
I  want.  It  is  kind  of  you  to  wait  on  me  as  if  I  were 
a  king — or  a  beggar." 

His  laugh  had  rather  a  cruel  ring  in  it  as  he  con- 
tinued his  meal. 

"  It  is,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  about  that  English- 
man, Cartoner." 

Wanda  turned  slowly,  and  resumed  the  chair  she  had 
quitted  on  Kosmaroff's  sudden  appearance  at  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  steady  voice. 

"  He  knows  more  than  it  is  safe  to  know — safe  for 

243 


THE     VULTURES 

lis — or  for  himself.  One  evening  I  could  have  put  him 
out  of  the  way,  and  it  is  a  pity,  perhaps,  that  it  was  not 
done.  In  a  cause  like  ours,  which  affects  the  lives  and 
happiness  of  millions,  we  should  not  pause  to  think  of 
the  life  of  one.  This  does  not  come  into  my  sphere,  and 
I  have  no  immediate  concern  in  it — "  He  stopped,  and 
looked  at  the  prince. 

"  But  I  have  also  no  power,"  he  added,  "  over  those 
whose  affair  it  is — you  understand  that.  This  comes 
under  the  hand  of  those  who  study  the  attitude  of  the 
European  powers,  our — well,  I  suppose  I  may  say — 
our  foreign  office.  It  is  their  affair  to  know  what 
powers  are  friendly  to  us — they  were  all  friendly  to  us 
thirty  years  ago,  in  words — and  who  are  our  enemies. 
It  is  also  their  affair  to  find  out  how  much  the  foreign 
powers  know.  It  seems  they  must  know  something. 
It  seems  that  Cartoner — knows  everything.  So  it  is 
reported  in  Cracow." 

The  prince  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gave  a  short 
laugh. 

"  In  Cracow,"  he  said,  "  they  are  all  words." 

"  There  are  certain  men,  it  appears,"  continued  Ivos- 
maroff,  "  in  the  service  of  the  governments — in  one 
service  it  is  called  '  foreign  affairs,'  in  another  the  '  se- 
cret service  ' — whose  mission  it  is  to  find  themselves 
where  things  are  stirring,  to  be  at  the  seat  of  war.  They 
are,  in  jest,  called  the  Vultures.  It  is  a  French  jest,  as 
you  would  conclude.  And  the  Vultures  have  been  con- 
gregating at  Warsaw.  Therefore,  the  powers  know 
something.  At  Cracow,  it  is  said — I  ask  your  pardon 
for  repeating  it — that  they  know,  and  that  Cartoner 
knows  what  he  knows — through  the  Bukatys." 

The  prince's  lips  moved  beneath  his  mustache,  but  he 
did  not  speak.     Wanda,  who  was  seated  near  the  fire, 

244: 


A    SACRIFICE 

had  turned  in  her  cKair,  anfl  was  looking  at  Kosmaroff 
over  her  shoulder  with  steady  eyes.  She  was  not  taken 
by  surprise.  It  was  Cartoner  himself  who  had  fore- 
seen this,  and  had  warned  her.  There  was  deep  down 
in  her  heart,  even  at  this  moment,  a  thrill  of  pride  in 
the  thought  that  her  lover  was  a  cleverer  man  than  any 
she  had  had  to  do  with.  And,  oddly  enough,  the  next 
words  Kosmaroff  spoke  made  her  his  friend  for  the  rest 
of  her  life. 

"  I  have  nothing  against  him.  I  know  nothing  of 
him,  except  that  he  is  a  brave  man.  It  happens  that 
I  know  that,"  he  said.  "  He  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that 
his  life  is  unsafe  in  this  countrv,  and  vet,  before  I  left 
London  I  heard — for  we  have  friends  everywhere — 
that  he  had  got  his  passport  for  Russia  again.  It  is 
to  be  presumed  that  he  is  coming  back,  so  you  must  be 
prepared.  In  case  anything  should  happen  to  confirm 
these  suspicions  that  come  to  us  from  Cracow,  you 
know  that  I  have  no  control  over  certain  members  of 
the  party.  If  it  was  thought  that  you  or  Martin  had 
betrayed  anything — " 

"  I  or  Martin  would  be  assassinated,"  said  the  prince, 
with  his  loud  laugh.  "  I  know  that.  I  have  long 
known  that  we  are  going  back  to  the  methods  of  the 
sixties  —  suspicion  and  assassination.  It  has  always 
been  the  ruin  of  Poland — that  method." 

"  But  you  have  no  feelings  with  regard  to  this 
man  ?"  asked  Kosmaroff,  sharply,  looking  from  father 
to  daughter,  with  a  keen  sidelong  glance,  as  if  the  sus- 
picion that  had  come  from  Cracow  had  not  left  him 
untouched. 

"  None  whatever,"  answered  the  prince.  "  He  is  a 
mere  passing  acquaintance.  He  must  be  allowed  to 
pass.    We  will  drop  him — you  can  tell  your  friends — 

245 


THE     VULTUKES 

it  will  not  be  much  of  a  sacrifice  compared  to  some  that 
have  been  made  for  Poland." 

Wanda  glanced  at  her  father.  Did  he  mean  any- 
thing ? 

"  You  know  what  they  are,"  broke  in  Kosmaroff's 
eager  voice.  "  They  see  a  mountain  in  every  mole- 
hill. Martin  was  seen  at  Alexandrowo  with  Cartoner. 
Wanda  was  seen  speaking  to  him  at  the  ]\Iokotow.  He 
is  known  to  have  called  on  you  at  your  hotel  in  Lon- 
don." 

"  It  is  a  question  of  dropping  his  acquaintance,  my 
friend,"  said  the  prince,  "  and  I  tell  you,  he  shall  be 
dropped." 

"  It  is  more  than  that,"  answered  Kosmaroff,  half 
sullenly. 

"  You  mean,"  said  the  prince,  suddenly  roused  to 
anger,  "  that  Martin  and  I  are  put  upon  our  good  be- 
havior— that  our  lives  are  safe  only  so  long  as  we  are 
not  seen  speaking  to  Cartoner,  or  are  not  suspected  of 
having  any  communication  with  him." 

And  Kosmaroff  was  silent. 

He  had  ceased  eating,  and  had  laid  aside  his  knife 
and  fork.  It  was  clear  that  his  whole  mind  and  body 
were  given  to  one  thought  and  one  hope.  He  looked  in- 
differently at  the  simple  dishes  set  before  him,  and  had 
satisfied  his  hunger  on  that  nearest  to  him,  because  it 
came  first. 

"  I  tell  you  this,"  he  said,  after  a  silence,  "  because 
no  one  else  dared  to  tell  you.  Because  I  know,  per- 
haps better  than  any  other,  all  that  you  have  done — all 
that  you  are  ready  to  do." 

"  Yes — yes.  Everything  must  be  done  for  Poland," 
said  the  prince,  suddenly  pacified  by  the  recollection, 
perhaps,  of  what  the  speaker's  life  had  been.     Wanda 

246 


A    SACRIFICE 

had  risen  as  if  to  go.  The  clock  had  just  struck 
ten. 

"  And  the  princess  says  the  same  ?"  said  Kosmaroff, 
rising  also,  and  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips  to  bid  her 
good-night,  after  the  Polish  fashion. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  say  the  same." 


XXVIII 

IN   THE   PINE -WOODS 

^HE  jirince  was  early  astir  the  next 
morning.  He  was  a  hardy  old  man, 
and  covered  great  distances  on  his  pow- 
erful horse.  Neither  cold  nor  rain  pre- 
vented him  from  undertaking  journeys 
to  some  distant  village  which  had  once 
owned  his  ancestor  as  lord  and  master — in  those  days 
when  a  noble  had  to  pay  no  more  for  killing  a  peasant 
than  a  farmer  may  claim  for  an  injured  sheep  to-day. 

The  prince  never  discussed  with  Wanda  those  affairs 
in  which,  as  a  noble,  he  felt  compelled  to  take  an  active 
interest.  He  had  seen,  perhaps,  enough  in  the  great 
revolution  of  his  younger  days  to  teach  him  that  wom- 
en— and  even  Polish  women — should  take  no  part  in 
politics.  He  believed  in  a  wise  and  studied  ignorance 
of  those  things  which  it  is  better  not  to  know.  He  made 
no  reference  to  Kosmaroff  at  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  Wanda  asked  no  questions.  She  had  not  slept 
until  nearly  morning,  and  had  heard  her  father  bolt 
the  doors  after  the  departure  of  the  ex-Cossack.  She 
had  heard  Kosmaroff's  light  and  quick  step  on  the 
frozen  snow  as  he  started  on  his  seven  -  mile  walk  to 
Warsaw. 

Cartoner's  name,  then,  was  not  mentioned  during  the 
morning  meal,  which  the  prince  ate  with  the  delibera- 

248 


IK     THE    PINE- WOODS 

tion  of  his  years.  The  morning  was  bright  and  sunny, 
with  a  crisp  air  and  sufficient  frost  to  keep  the  snow 
from  melting.  The  prince  had  recovered  from  his 
anger  of  the  previous  evening,  and  was  gay.  Wanda, 
too,  seemed  light-hearted  enough.  She  was  young  and 
strong.  In  her  veins  there  flowed  the  blood  of  a  race 
that  had  always  been  "  game,"  that  had  always  faced 
the  world  with  unflinching  eyes,  and  had  never  craved  its 
pity.  Her  father  had  lost  everything,  had  lived  a  life 
of  hardship,  almost  to  privation  for  one  of  his  rank; 
had  witnessed  the  ruin  or  the  downfall  of  all  his 
friends ;  and  yet  he  could  laugh  with  the  merry,  while 
with  the  mourner  it  was  his  habit  to  purse  up  his  lips 
beneath  the  grizzled  mustache  and  mutter  a  few  curt 
words,  not  of  condolence,  but  of  stimulation  to  endure. 

He  liked  to  see  cheerful  faces  around  him.  They 
helped  him,  no  doubt,  to  carry  on  to  the  end  of  his  days 
that  high-handed  and  dignified  fight  against  ill-fortune 
which  he  had  alwavs  wasred. 

"  If  you  have  a  grievance,"  he  always  said  to  those 
who  brought  their  tales  of  woe  to  his  ears,  "  air  it  as 
much  as  you  like,  but  speak  up,  and  do  not  whine." 

He  had  to  listen  to  a  great  number  of  such  tales,  and 
to  the  majority  of  grievances  could  suggest  no  cure ; 
for  they  were  the  grievances  of  Poland,  and  in  these 
later  times  of  Finland  also,  to  which  it  appears  there 
is  no  cure. 

"  I  shall  make  a  long  round  to  -  day,"  he  said  to 
Wanda,  when  he  was  in  the  saddle,  with  his  short,  old- 
fashioned  stirrup,  his  great  boots  covering  his  knee  and 
thigh  from  the  wind,  and  his  weather-beaten  old  face 
looking  out  from  the  fur  collar  of  his  riding-coat.  "  It 
may  be  the  last  time  this  winter.     The  spring  must 


come  soon." 


249 


THE     VULTUKES 

And  he  went  away  at  an  easy  canter. 

Wanda,  left  alone  for  the  whole  day  in  the  stillness 
of  this  forest  farm,  had  her  round  to  do  also.  She  set 
out  on  foot  soon  after  her  father's  departure,  bound  to 
a  distant  cottage  in  the  depths  of  the  pine-woods.  The 
trees  were  quiet  this  morning ;  for  it  is  only  at  the  time 
of  thaw,  when  the  snow,  gathering  moisture  from  the 
atmosphere,  gains  in  weight  and  breaks  down  the 
branches,  that  the  woods  crack  as  beneath  the  tread  of 
some  stealthy  giant.  But  a  frost  seems  to  brace  the 
trees  which  in  the  colder  weather  stand  grim  and  silent, 
bearing  their  burden  without  complaint. 

The  sky  was  cloudless  and  the  air  quite  still.  There 
is  no  silence  like  that  of  a  northern  pine-wood  in  win- 
ter; for  the  creatures  living  in  the  twilight  there  have 
been  given  by  God  silent  feet  and  a  stealthy  habit — the 
smaller  ones  going  in  fear  of  the  larger,  and  the  beasts 
of  prey  ever  alert  for  their  natural  enemy — man.  The 
birds  kept  for  the  most  part  to  the  outer  fringes  of  the 
forest,  nearer  to  the  crops  and  the  few,  far  cottages. 

Wanda  had  grown  from  childhood  amid  the  pines, 
and  the  gloomy  forest-paths  were  so  familiar  as  to  have 
lost  all  power  to  impress  her.  In  the  nursery  she  had 
heard  tales  of  wolves  and  bears,  but  had  never  seen 
them.  They  might  be  near  or  far ;  they  might  be  watch- 
ing through  the  avenues  of  straight  and  motionless 
stems.  In  their  childhood  it  had  been  the  delight  of 
Martin  and  herself  to  trace  in  the  snow  the  footprints 
of  the  wolves — near  the  house,  in  the  garden,  right  up 
to  the  nursery  window.  They  had  gradually  acquired 
the  indifference  of  the  peasants  who  work  in  the  fields, 
or  the  woodmen  at  their  labors  amid  the  trees,  who  are 
aware  that  the  silent,  stealthy  eyes  are  watching  them, 
and  work  on  without  fear.     The  prince  had  taught  the 

250 


Iiq-    THE     PINE- WOODS 

children  fearlessness,  or,  perhaps,  it  was  in  their  blood, 
and  needed  no  education.  He  had  tanght  them  to  look 
upon  the  beasts  of  the  forests  not  as  enemies,  but  as 
quiet,  watching  friends. 

Wanda  went  alone  whithersoever  she  listed,  without 
so  much  as  turning  her  head  to  look  over  her  shoulder. 
The  pine-woods  were  hers ;  the  peasants  were  her  serfs 
in  spirit,  if  not  in  deed.  Here,  at  all  events,  the  Bu- 
katys  were  free  to  come  and  go.  In  cities  they  were 
watched,  their  footsteps  dogged  by  human  wolves. 

There  are  few  paths  through  the  great  forests  of 
Poland,  of  Posen,  and  of  Silesia,  and  what  there  are, 
are  usually  cut  straight  and  at  right  angles  to  each 
other.  There  was  a  path  just  wide  enough  to  give  pas- 
sage to  the  narrow  timber  carts  from  the  farm  direct 
to  the  woodman's  cottage,  and  so  flat  is  the  face  of  the 
earth  that  the  distant  trees  are  like  the  masts  of  ships 
half-hidden  by  the  curve  of  the  world.  It  seems  as  if 
one  could  walk  on  and  on  forever,  or  drop  from  hun- 
ger and  fatigue  and  lie  unheeded  for  years  in  some  for- 
gotten corner.  In  the  better-kept  forests  the  paths  are 
staked  and  numbered,  or  else  it  would  be  impossible  to 
know  the  way  amid  such  millions  of  trees — all  alike, 
all  of  the  same  height.  But  the  prince  was  too  poor 
to  vie  with  the  wealthy  land-owners  of  Silesia,  and  his 
forests  were  ill-kept. 

In  places  the  trees  had  fallen  across  the  original  path, 
and  the  few  passers-by  had  made  a  new  path  to  one  side 
or  the  other.  Sometimes  a  tree  had  grown  outward 
towards  the  light  and  air,  almost  bridging  the  open 
space. 

Wanda  could  not,  therefore,  see  very  far  in  front  or 
behind,  and  was  taken  by  surprise  by  the  thud  of  a 
horse's  feet  on  the  beaten  snow  behind  her.     She  turn- 

251 


THE    VULTUKES 

ed,  thinking  it  was  her  father,  who  for  some  reason  had 
returned  home,  and,  learning  whither  she  had  gone, 
had  followed  her.  But  it  was  not  the  prince.  It  was 
Cartoner.  Before  she  had  quite  realized  that  it  was 
he,  he  was  on  his  feet  leading  his  horse  towards  her. 

She  paused  and  looked  at  him,  half  startled;  then, 
with  a  curt,  inarticulate  cry  of  joy  she  hurried  towards 
him.  Thus  were  given  to  them  a  few  of  those  brief  mo- 
ments of  complete  happiness  which  are  sometimes 
vouchsafed  to  human  beings.  Which  must  assuredly 
be  moments  stolen  from  heaven ;  for  angels  are  so  chary 
with  them,  giving  them  to  a  few  favored  ones  only 
once  or  twice  in  a  whole  lifetime,  and,  to  the  large  ma- 
jority of  mankind,  never  at  all. 

"  Why  have  you  come  ?"  asked  Wanda. 

"  To  see  you,"  replied  this  man  of  few  words. 

And  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  sight  of  his  strong 
face,  swept  away  all  her  troubles  and  anxieties ;  as  if, 
v/ith  his  greater  physical  strength,  he  had  taken  a  bur- 
den which  she  could  hardly  lift,  and  carried  it  easily. 
For  he  always  seemed  to  know  how  to  meet  every 
emergency  and  face  every  trouble.  A  minute  ago  she 
had  been  reflecting  with  relief  that  he  was  not  in  Po- 
land, and  now  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart  must  break  had 
he  been  anywhere  else.  She  forgot  for  the  moment  all 
the  dangers  that  surrounded  them ;  the  hopelessness  of 
their  love,  the  thousand  reasons  why  they  should  not 
meet.  She  forgot  that  a  whole  nation  stood  between 
them.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment — a  moment  bor- 
rowed from  eternity. 

"  Is  that  the  only  reason  ?"  she  asked,  remembering 
with  a  sort  of  shock  that  this  world  of  glittering  snow 
and  still  pine-trees  was  not  their  real  world  at  all, 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

252 


IK    THE    PIKE- WOODS 

*'  But  you  cannot  stay  in  Poland !  You  must  go 
away  again  at  once !  You  do  not  know — "  And  she 
stopped  short,  for  their  respective  positions  were  such 
that  they  always  arrived  at  a  point  where  only  silence 
was  left  to  them. 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I 
know.     I  am  going  away  to-night — to  St.  Petersburg." 

He  did  not  explain  that  his  immediate  departure  was 
not  due  to  the  fears  that  she  had  half  expressed. 

"  I  am  so  glad."  She  broke  off,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  little  smile.    "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  away." 

She  turned  away  from  him  with  a  sharp  sigh.  For 
she  had  now  a  new  anxiety,  which,  however,  like 
Aaron's  rod,  had  swallowed  all  the  rest. 

"  I  would  rather  know  that  you  were  safe  in  Eng- 
land," she  said,  "  even  if  I  were  never  to  see  you  again. 
But,"  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sort  of  pride  in 
her  eyes — that  long-drawn  pride  of  race  which  is  strong 
to  endure — "  but  you  must  never  be  hampered  by  a 
thought  of  me.  I  want  you  to  be  what  you  have  always 
been.  Ah  !  you  need  not  shake  your  head.  All  men  say 
the  same  of  you — they  are  afraid  of  you." 

She  looked  at  him  slowly,  up  and  down. 

"  And  I  am  not,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  laugh. 
Eor  her  happiness  was  real  enough.  The  best  sort  of 
happiness  is  rarely  visible  to  the  multitude.  It  lies 
hidden  in  odd  corners  and  quiet  places;  and  the  eager 
world  which,  presumably,  is  seeking  it,  hurries  past 
and  never  recognizes  it,  but  continues  to  mistake  for  it 
prosperity  and  riches,  noise  and  laughter,  even  fame 
and  mere  cheap  notoriety. 

They  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  farm,  and 
again  the  gods  were  kind  to  them ;  for  they  forgot  how 
short  their  time  was,  how  quickly  such  moments  fly. 

253 


THE    VULTUEES 

Much  that  they  had  to  say  to  each  other  may  not  be  ex- 
pressed on  paper,  neither  can  any  compositor  set  it  up 
in  type. 

They  were  practical  enough,  however,  and  as  they 
walked  beneath  the  snow-clad  pines  they  drew  up  a 
scheme  of  life  which  was  astonishingly  unlike  the 
dreams  and  aspirations  of  most  lovers.  Eor  it  was  de- 
void of  selfishness,  and  they  looked  for  happiness — not 
in  an  immediate  gratification  of  all  their  desires  and 
an  instant  fulfilment  of  their  hopes,  but  in  a  mutual 
faith  that  should  survive  all  separation  and  bridge  the 
longest  span  of  years.  Loyalty  was  to  be  their  watch- 
word.    Loyalty  to  self,  to  duty,  and  to  each  other. 

Wanda  did  not,  like  the  heroine  of  a  novel,  look  for 
a  passion  that  should  stride  over  every  obstacle  to  its 
object,  that  should  ignore  duty,  which  is  only  another 
word  for  honor,  and  throw  down  the  spectres,  Fore- 
sight, Common-sense,  Respect,  which  must  arise  in  the 
pathway  of  that  madness,  a  brief  passion.  She  was 
content,  it  seemed,  that  her  lover  should  be  wise,  should 
be  careful  for  the  future,  should  take  her  life  into  his 
hands  with  a  sort  of  quiet  mastery  as  if  he  had  a  right 
to  do  so — a  right,  not  to  ruin  and  debase,  such  as  is 
usually  considered  the  privilege  of  that  which  is  called 
a  great  passion  and  admired  as  such — but  a  right  to 
shape,  guard,  and  keep. 

Cartoner  had  not  much  to  say  about  his  own  feelings, 
which,  perhaps,  made  him  rather  different  from  most 
lovers.  He  went  so  far  as  to  consider  the  feelings  of 
others  and  to  place  them  before  his  own,  which,  of 
course,  is  quite  unusual.  And  yet  the  scheme  of  life 
which  was  his  reading  of  Love,  and  which  Wanda  ex- 
tracted from  him  that  sunny  March  morning  and 
pieced  together  bit  by  bit  in  her  own  decided  and  con- 

254 


IN"     THE     PINE- WOODS 

elusive  way,  seemed  to  content  her.  She  seemed  to 
gather  from  it  that  he  loved  her  precisely  as  she  wished 
to  be  loved,  and  that,  come  what  might,  she  had  already 
enough  to  make  her  life  happier  than  the  lives  of  most 
v/omen. 

And,  of  course,  they  hoped.  For  they  Avere  youaig, 
and  human,  and  the  spring  was  in  the  air.  But  their 
hope  was  one  of  those  things  of  which  they  could  not 
speak ;  for  it  involved  knowledge  of  which  Wanda  had 
become  possessed  at  the  hand  of  the  prince  and  Martin 
and  Kosmaroff.  It  touched  those  things  which  Car- 
toner  had  come  to  Poland  to  learn,  but  not  from  Wanda. 

The  smell  of  the  wood-smoke  from  the  chimneys  of 
the  farm  told  them  that  they  were  nearing  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  and  Wanda  stopped  short. 

"  You  must  not  go  any  nearer,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
sure  no  one  saw  you  when  you  came  ?" 

"  'No  one,"  answered  Cartoner,  whom  fortune  had 
favored  as  he  came.  For  he  had  approached  the  farm 
through  the  wood,  and  he  had  seen  Wanda's  footsteps  in 
the  snow.  He  had  often  ridden  over  the  same  ground 
on  the  very  horse  which  he  was  now  riding,  and  knew 
every  inch  of  the  way  to  Warsaw.  He  could  get  there 
v/ithout  being  seen,  might  even  quit  the  city  again  un- 
observed. 

For  he  knew — indeed,  Wanda  had  told  him — the 
dangers  that  surrounded  him.  He  knew  also  that  these 
dangers  were  infinitely  greater  for  Martin  and  the 
prince. 

"  It  is  only  what  you  foresaw,"  she  said,  "  when — 
when  we  first  understood." 

"  No,  it  is  worse  than  I  foresaw,"  he  answered. 

So  they  parted,  with  the  knowledge  that  they  must 
not  meet  again  in  Poland  when  their  meeting  must 

255 


THE    VULTU'K^ES 

mean  such  imminent  risk  to  others.  They  could  not 
even  write  to  each  other  while  Wanda  should  be  within 
the  circle  of  the  Russian  postal  service.  There  was  but 
the  one  link  between  them — Paul  Deulin;  and  to  him 
neither  would  impart  a  confidence.  Deulin  had  brought 
about  this  meeting  to-day.  Warned  by  telegram,  he 
had  met  Cartoner  at  Warsaw  Station,  and  had  coun- 
selled him  not  to  go  out  into  the  streets.  Since  he  was 
only  waiting  a  few  hours  in  Warsaw  for  the  St.  Peters- 
burg train,  he  must  either  sit  in  the  station  or  take  a 
horse  and  go  for  a  ride  into  the  country.  The  Bukatys, 
by-the-way,  were  not  in  town,  but  at  their  country  house. 

"  Go  and  see  them,"  he  added.  "  A  man  living  on  a 
volcano  may  surely  play  with  firearms  if  he  wants  to. 
And  you  are  all  on  the  volcano  together.  Pah !  I  know 
the  smell  of  it.  The  very  streets,  my  friend,  reek  of 
catastrophe." 

Wanda  was  gay  and  light-hearted  to  the  end.  There 
was  French  blood  in  her  veins — that  gay,  good  blood 
which  stained  the  streets  of  Paris  a  hundred  years  ago, 
and  raised  a  standard  of  courage  against  adversity  for 
all  the  world  to  imitate  so  long  as  history  shall  exist. 

Cartoner  turned  once  in  his  saddle  and  saw  her 
standing  in  the  sunlight  waving  him  a  farewell,  with 
her  eyes  smiling  and  her  lips  hard  pressed.  Then  he 
rode  on,  with  that  small,  small  hope  to  help  him  through 
his  solitary  wanderings  which  he  knew  to  be  identical 
with  the  hope  of  Poland,  for  which  the  time  was  not  yet 
ripe.  He  was  the  watcher  who  sees  most  of  the  game, 
and  knew  that  the  time  might  never  ripen  till  years 
after  Wanda  and  he  had  gone  hence  and  w.ere  no  more 
seen. 


XXIX 


IN  A  BY-WAY 


lIIEEE  are  few  roads  in  Poland.  Soon- 
er or  later,  Cartoner  must  needs  join 
the  great  higliway  that  enters  Warsaw 
from  the  west,  passing  by  the  gates  of 
the  cemetery. 

Deulin,  no  doubt,  knew  this,  for  Car- 
toiier  found  him,  riding  leisurely  away  from  the  city, 
just  beyond  the  cemetery.  The  Frenchman  sat  his  horse 
with  a  straight  leg  and  arm  which  made  Cartoner  think 
of  those  days  ten  years  earlier,  to  which  Deulin  sel- 
dom referred,  when  this  white-haired  dandy  was  a  cav- 
alry soldier,  engaged  in  the  painful  business  of  killing 
Germans. 

Deulin  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  refer  to  the  ob- 
ject of  Cartoner's  ride.  jSTeither  did  he  mention  the 
fact  that  he  knew  that  this  was  not  the  direct  way  to 
St.  Petersburg. 

"  I  hired  a  horse  and  rode  out  to  meet  you,"  he  said, 
gayly— he  was  singularly  gay  this  morning,  and  there 
was  a  light  in  his  eye — "  to  intercept  you.  Kosmaroff 
is  back  in  Warsaw.  I  saw  him  in  the  streets — and  he 
saw  me.  I  think  that  man  is  the  god  in  the  machine. 
He  is  not  a  nonentity.  I  wonder  who  he  is.  There  is 
blood  there,  my  friend." 

He  turned  his  horse  as  he  spoke,  and  rode  back  tow- 
ards the  city  with  Cartoner. 
"  257 


THE     VULTUEES 

"  In  tlie  mean  time,"  lie  said,  "  I  have  the  hunger  of 
a  beggar's  dog.  What  are  we  to  do  ?  It  is  one  o'clock 
— and  I  who  have  the  inside  of  a  Frenchman.  We 
are  a  great  people.  We  tear  do\vn  monarchies,  and 
build  up  a  new  republic  which  is  to  last  forever,  and 
doesn't.  We  make  history  so  quickly  that  the  world 
stands  breathless — but  we  always  breakfast  before  mid- 
day." 

He  took  out  his  watch,  and  showed  its  face  to  Car- 
toner,  with  a  gesture  which  could  not  have  been  more 
tragic  had  it  marked  the  hour  of  the  last  trump. 

"  And  we  dare  not  show  our  faces  in  the  streets. 
At  least,  I  dare  not  show  mine  in  the  neighborhood  of 
yours  in  Warsaw.  For  they  have  got  accustomed  to 
me  there.  They  think  I  am  a  harmless  old  man — a 
dentist,  perhaps." 

"  My  train  goes  from  the  St.  Petersburg  Station  at 
three,"  said  Cartoner.  "  I  will  have  some  lunch  at  the 
other  station^  and  drive  across  in  a  close  cab  with  the 
blinds  down." 

And  he  gave  his  low,  gentle  laugh.  Deulin  glanced 
at  him  as  if  there  were  matter  for  surprise  in  the  sound 
of  it. 

"  Like  a  monstrosity  going  to  a  fair,"  he  said.  "  And 
I  sliall  go  with  you.  I  will  even  lunch  with  you  at  the 
station — on  a  station  steak  and  a  beery  table.  There 
is  only  one  room  at  the  station  for  those  who  eat  and 
those  who  await  their  trains.  So  that  the  eaters  eat  be- 
fore a  famished  audience  like  Louis  XVI.,  and  the 
travellers  sit  among  the  crumbs.  I  am  Avith  you.  But 
let  us  be  quick — and  get  it  over.  Did  you  see  Bu- 
katy  ?"  he  asked,  finally,  and,  leaning  forward,  he 
sought  an  imaginary  fly  on  the  lower  parts  of  his  horse ; 
for,  after  all,  he  was  only  a  man,  and  lacked  the  higher 

258 


INABY-WAY 

skill  or  the  thicker  skin  of  the  gentler  sex  in  dealing 
Avith  certain  delicate  matters. 

"  No,  I  only  saw  the  princess,"  replied  Cartoner. 
And  they  rode  on  in  silence. 

"  You  know,"  said  Deulin,  at  length,  gravely,  "  if 
that  happens  which  you  expect  and  I  expect,  and  every- 
body here  is  hoping  for — I  shall  seek  out  Wanda  at 
once,  and  look  after  her.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is 
my  duty  or  not.  But  it  is  my  inclination;  and  I  am 
much  too  old  to  put  my  duty  before  my  inclination. 
So  if  anything  happens,  and  there  follows  that  con- 
fusion which  you  and  I  have  seen  once  or  twice  before, 
where  things  are  stirring  and  dynasties  are  crumbling 
in  the  streets — when  friends  and  foes  are  seeking  each 
other  in  vain — jon  need  not  seek  me  or  think  about  our 
friends  in  Warsaw.  You  need  only  think  of  yourself, 
remember  that.    I  shall  have  eloped — with  Wanda." 

And  he  finished  with  an  odd  laugh,  that  had  a  tender 
ring  in  it. 

"  Bukaty  and  I,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  do  not 
talk  of  these  things  together.  But  we  have  come  to  an 
understanding  on  that  point.  And  when  the  first  flurry 
is  over  and  Ave  come  to  the  top  for  a  breath  of  air,  you 
have  only  to  wire  to  my  address  in  Paris  to  tell  me 
where  you  are — and  I  will  tell  you  where — we  are. 
We  are  old  birds  at  this  sport — you  and  I — and  we  know 
how  to  take  care  of  ourselves." 

They  were  now  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  among 
the  wide  and  ill-paved  streets  where  tall  houses  aro 
springing  up  on  the  site  of  the  huts  once  occupied  by 
the  JcAVS  Avho  are  now  quartered  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  ISTowiniarska  market-place.  For  the  chosen  people 
must  needs  live  near  a  market-place,  and  within  hearing 
of  the  chink  of  small  coin.     In  the  cities  of  eastern 

259 


THE    yULTUEES 

Europe  that  have  a  Jews'  quarter  there  is  a  barrier 
erected  between  the  daily  lives  of  the  two  races,  though 
no  more  than  a  narrow  street  may  in  reality  divide  them. 
Different  interests,  different  hopes,  asj)irations,  and 
desires  are  to  be  found  within  a  few  yards,  and  neigh- 
bors are  as  far  apart  as  if  a  frontier  line  or  the  curse 
of  Babel  stood  between  them. 

Cartoner  and  Deulin,  riding  through  the  Jewish 
quarter,  were  as  safe  from  recognition  as  if  they  were 
in  a  country  lane  at  Wilanow;  for  the  men  hurrying 
along  the  pavements  were  wrapped  each  in  his  o^vn 
keen  thought  of  gain,  and  if  they  glanced  up  at  the 
horsemen  at  all,  merely  looked  in  order  to  appraise  the 
value  of  their  clothes  and  saddles — as  if  there  were 
nothing  beyond.  For  them,  it  would  seem,  there  is  no 
beyond ;  nothing  but  the  dumb  waiting  for  the  removal 
of  that  curse  which  has  lasted  nineteen  hundred  years, 
and  instead  of  Avearing  itself  out,  seems  to  gain  in 
strength  as  the  world  grows  older. 

"  We  will  go  by  the  back  ways,"  said  Cartoner, 
"  and  need  never  see  any  of  our  world  in  Warsaw  at 
all." 

The  streets  were  crowded  by  men,  for  the  women  live 
an  in-door  life  in  an  atmosphere  that  seems  to  bleach 
and  fatten.  The  roads  were  little  used  for  wheel  traffic ; 
for  the  commerce  by  which  these  people  live  is  of  so 
retail  a  nature  that  it  seems  to  pass  from  hand  to  hand 
in  mysterious  cloth  bundles  and  black  stuff  bags.  The 
two  horsemen  were  obliged  to  go  slowly  through  the 
groups,  who  never  raised  their  heads,  or  seemed  to  speak 
above  a  whisper. 

"  What  do  they  talk  of — what  do  they  think — all 
'day  ?"  said  Cartoner.  And,  indeed,  the  quiet  of  the 
streets  had  a  suggestion  of  surreptitiousness.    Even  the 

260 


IK    A    BY-WAY 

cliilclren  are  sad,  and  stand  about  in  melanclioly  soli- 
tude. 

"  I  would  sooner  be  a  dog,"  answered  Deulin,  with  a 
shake  of  the  shoulders,  as  if  Care  had  climbed  into  the 
saddle  behind  him.     "  Sooner  a  dog." 

By  these  ways  they  reached  the  station,  and  there 
found  a  messenger  to  take  the  horses  to  their  stable. 
All  through  the  streets  they  had  passed  men  in  one  uni- 
form or  another,  who  looked  stout  and  well-fed,  who 
strode  in  the  middle  of  the  pavement,  while  the  Poles, 
whose  clothes  were  poor  and  threadbare,  shuffled  aside  in 
their  patched  and  shambling  boots  to  make  way  for  the 
conqueror.  Sometimes  they  would  turn  and  look  back 
at  some  sword-bearer  who  was  more  offensive  than  usual, 
with  reflective  eyes  as  if  marking  him  in  order  to  know 
him  at  a  future  time.  As  is  always  the  case,  it  was  the 
smaller  officials  who  were  the  most  offensive — the  little 
Jacks-in-office  from  the  postal  administration,  the  cus- 
toms officers,  the  hundred  obscure  civil  servants  who 
wear  a  sword  and  uniform  unworthily  in  any  one  of  the 
three  European  empires.  On  the  other  hand,  the  men  in 
real  authority,  and  notabW  the  officers  of  the  better  regi- 
ments, sought  to  conciliate  by  politeness  and  a  careful 
retention  of  themselves  in  the  background.  But  these 
well-intentioned  efforts  were  of  small  avail;  for  racial 
things  are  stronger  than  human  endeavor  or  the  careful 
foresight  of  statesmen.  Here  in  Warsaw  the  Muscovite, 
the  Pole,  the  Jew — herding  together  in  the  same  streets, 
under  the  same  roof,  obedient  to  one  law,  acknowledging 
one  sovereign — were  watching  each  other,  hating  each 
other. 

At  the  street  corners  the  smart,  quiet  police  took  note 
of  each  foot-passenger,  every  carriage,  every  stranger 
passing  in  a  hired  droschki.    Cartoner  and  Deulin  could 

261 


THE     VULTUKES 

see  from  the  passing  glance  beneath  the  flat,  green  cap 
that  they  were  seen  and  recognized  at  every  turn.  On 
the  steps  of  the  station  they  were  watched  with  a  po- 
lite pretence  of  looking  the  other  way  by  two  of  the 
higher  officials  of  the  Russian-speaking  police. 

"  I  do  not  mind  them,"  said  Deulin,  passing  through 
the  doorway  to  the  booking-office.  "  It  is  not  of  them 
that  we  need  be  afraid.  We  are  doing  no  harm,  and 
they  cannot  send  us  out  of  the  country  while  our  pass- 
ports hold  out.  They  have  satisfied  themselves  as  to 
tliat.  For  they  have  been  through  my  belongings  twice, 
in  my  rooms  at  the  Europe — I  know  when  my  things 
have  been  touched — they  or  some  one  else.  Perhapa 
Kosmaroff ;  who  knows  ?" 

Thus  he  talked  on  in  characteristic  fashion,  saying  a 
hundred  nothings  as  only  Frenchmen  and  women  can, 
touching  life  lightly  like  a  skilled  musician,  running- 
nimble  fingers  over  the  keys,  and  striking  a  chord  half 
by  accident  here  and  there  which  was  sonorous  and  had 
a  deeper  meaning.  He  ordered  the  luncheon,  argued 
v/ith  the  waiter,  and  rallied  him  on  the  criminal  paucity 
of  his  menu. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  let  it  be  beef.  I  know  your  mut- 
ton. It  tastes  like  the  smell  of  goat.  So  give  us  beef 
— your  railway  beef,  which  has  travelled  so  far,  but  not 
by  train.  It  has  come  on  foot,  to  be  killed  and  cut  up 
by  a  locomotive,  to  be  served  by  a  waiter  who  has 
assuredh''  failed  as  a  stoker." 

He  sat  down  as  he  spoke,  and  rearranged  the  small 
table,  covered  by  a  doubtful  cloth,  through  which  could 
be  felt  the  chill  of  the  marble  underneath.  Deulin  al- 
ways took  the  lead  in  these  small  matters,  and  Cartoner 
accepted  his  decision  without  comment.  The  French- 
man knew  him  so  well,  it  seemed,  that  he  knew  his 

262 


IN    A    BY-WAY 

tastes,  or  suspected  his  indifference.  While  he  thus 
rattled  on  he  glanced  sharply  from  time  to  time  at  his 
companion,  and  when  the  waiter  was  finally  sent  away 
with  a  hundred  minute  instructions,  he  turned  suddenly 
to  Cartoner. 

''  You  are  absorbed.  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?" 
he  said. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  well  you  speak  Polish.  And 
yet  you  have  only  been  here  once  before,"  answered  the 
Englishman,  bluntly. 

''  When  I  was  a  young  man  there  were  opportunities 
of  learning  Polish  in  Paris,"  said  Deulin.  "  Yes — I 
learned  Polish  when  I  was  young — " 

He  had  arranged  the  table  to  his  satisfaction,  had 
picked  up  several  objects  to  examine  them  and  replace 
them  with  care  on  the  exact  spot  from  whence  he  had 
taken  them,  and  was  now  looking  round  the  room  with 
large,  deep-lined  eyes  which  were  always  tired  and  never 
at  rest. 

"  When  one  is  young,  one  learns  so  much  in  a  short 
time,  especially  if  that  time  is  ill-spent,"  he  said,  airily. 
"  That  is  why  the  virtuous  are  such  poor  company  • 
they  have  no  backbone  to  their  past.  With  the  others — 
^  nous  autres  ' — it  is  the  evil  deeds  that  form  a  sort  of 
spinal  column  to  our  lives,  rigid  and  strong,  upon 
Vv'hich  to  lean  in  old  age  when  virtue  is  almost  a  neces' 
sity." 

Finally  he  came  round  in  his  tour  of  inspection  to 
the  face  opposite  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  sharply,  "  you  are  devilish 
absent-minded.  It  is  a  bad  habit.  It  makes  the  world 
think  that  you  have  something  on  your  mind.  And 
having  nothing  on  its  own  mind — or  no  mind  to  have 
anything  on — it  hates  you  for  your  airs  of  superiority." 

263 


THE    yULTUKES 

He  took  up  the  bottle  of  wine  which  the  waiter  had 
set  upon  the  table  in  front  of  him,  inspected  the  label, 
and  filled  two  glasses.  He  tasted  the  vintage,  and  made 
a  wry  face.  Then  he  raised  his  shoulders  with  an  air 
of  reconciliation  to  the  inevitable. 

"  When  I  was  a  young — a  very  young  diplomatist — 
an  old  scoundrel  in  gold  spectacles  told  me  that  one  of 
the  first  rules  of  the  game  was  to  appear  content  with 
that  which  you  cannot  alter.  We  must  apply  that  rule 
to  this  wine.  It  is  our  old  friend,  Chateau  la  Pompe. 
It  will  not  hurt  you.  It  will  not  loosen  your  tongue,  my 
friend,  you  need  not  fear  that." 

He  spoke  so  significantly  that  Cartoner  looked  across 
the  table  at  him. 

"  What  do  vou  mean  ?" 

Deulin  laughed  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Do  you  think  that  my  tongue  requires  loosening  ?" 

And  the  Frenchman  stroked  his  mustache  as  he 
looked  thoughtfully  into  the  steady,  meditating  eyes. 

"  It  is  not,"  he  said,  ''  that  you  assume  a  reserve 
which  one  might  think  unfair.  It  is  merely  that  there 
are  so  many  things  which  you  do  not  think  worth  saying, 
or  wise  to  speak  of,  or  necessary  to  communicate,  that — 
well — there  is  nothing  left  but  silence.  And  silence  is 
sometimes  dangerous.  ISTot  as  dangerous  as  sj)eech,  I 
allow — but  dangerous,  nevertheless." 

Cartoner  looked  at  him  and  waited.  Across  the  little 
table  the  two  schools  went  out  to  meet  each  other — the 
old  school  of  diplomacy,  all  words ;  the  new,  all  silence. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  Frenchman.  "  I  once  knew  a 
man  into  whose  care  was  given  the  happiness  of  a  fel- 
low-being. There  is  a  greater  responsibility,  by-the-way, 
than  the  well-being  of  a  whole  nation,  even  of  one  of  the 
two  greatest  nations  in  the  world.     And  that  is  a  care 

264 


IN    A    BY-WAY 

which  you  and  I  have  bad  upon  our  shoulders  for  a 
brief  hour  here  and  there.  It  was  the  old  story ;  for  it 
was  the  happiness  of  a  woman.  God  knows  the  man 
meant  well !  But  he  bungled  it.  Bon  Dieu — how  he 
bungled  it !  He  said  too  little.  Ever  since  he  has 
talked  too  much.  She  was  a  Polish  woman,  by-the-way, 
and  that  has  left  a  tenderness,  nay,  a  raw  place,  in  my 
heart,  which  smarts  at  the  sound  of  a  Polish  word.  Por 
I  was  the  man." 

"  Well,"  asked  Cartoner,  "  what  do  you  want  to 
know  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  other,  quick  as  thought. 
"  I  only  tell  you  the  story  as  a  warning.  To  you  espe^ 
cially,  who  take  so  much  for  said  that  has  not  been  said. 
You  are  strong,  and  a  man.  Remember  that  a  woman — 
even  the  strongest — may  not  be  able  to  bear  such  a 
strain  as  you  can  bear." 

Cartoner  was  listening  attentively  enough.  He  al- 
ways listened  with  attention  to  his  friend  on  such  rare 
occasions  as  he  chose  to  be  serious. 

"  You  know,"  went  on  Deulin,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  the  waiter  had  set  before  him  a  battered  silver 
dish  from  which  he  removed  the  cover  with  a  flourish 
full  of  promise — "  you  know  that  I  would  give  into  your 
care  unreservedly  anything  that  I  possessed,  such  as  a 
fortune,  or — well — a  daughter.  I  would  trust  you  en- 
tirely. But  any  man  may  make  a  mistake.  And  if  you 
make  a  mistake  now,  I  shall  never  forgive  you — never." 

And  his  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden  fierceness  as  he 
looked  at  his  companion. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  my  friend  ?" 
he  asked,  curtly. 

"  You  have  already  promised  to  do  the  only  thing  I 
would  ask  you  to  do  in  Warsaw,"  replied  Cartoner. 

265 


T  HE     VULTURES 

Denlin  held  tip  one  hand  in  a  gesture  commanding 
silence. 

"  ITot  another  word — they  cost  you  so  much,  a  few 
M^ords — I  understand  perfectly." 

Then  with  a  rapid  relapse  into  his  gayer  mood  ho 
turned  to  the  dish  before  him. 

"  And  now  let  us  consider  the  railway  beef.  It 
promises  little.  But  it  cannot  be  so  tough  and  indi- 
gestible as  the  memory  of  a  mistake — I  tell  you  that." 


THE    QUIET    CITY 

^^^^,^HE  most  liberal-minded  man  in  Eussia 
at  this  time  was  the  Czar.  He  had 
chosen  his  ministers  from  among  the 
nobles  who  were  at  least  tolerant  of  ad- 
vance, if  thej  did  not  actually  advocate 
it.  Much  as  he  hated  to  make  a  change, 
he  had  in  one  or  two  instances  parted  with  old  and 
trusted  servants — friends  of  his  boyhood — rather  than 
forego  one  item  of  his  policy.  In  other  cases  he  had 
appealed  to  the  memory  of  their  long  friendship  in  order 
to  bring  his  nobles  not  to  his  own  way  of  thinking,  for 
he  could  not  do  that,  but  to  his  own  plan  of  action. 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  but  I  will  serve  you,"  had 
answered  one  of  these,  and  the  Czar,  who  did  not  know 
Avliere  to  turn  to  find  the  man  he  needed,  accepted  such 
service. 

For  a  throne  stands  in  isolation,  and  no  man  may 
judge  another  by  looking  down  upon  him,  but  must 
needs  descend  into  the  crowd,  and,  mingling  there  on  a 
lower  level,  pick  out  for  himself  the  honest  man  or  the 
clever  man — or  that  rare  being,  the  man  who  is  both. 

Kings  and  emperors  may  not  do  this,  however.  Des- 
pots dare  not.  Alexander  II.  acted  as  any  ordinary  man 
acts  when  he  finds  himself  in  a  position  to  confer  fa- 
vors, to  make  appointments,  to  get  together,  as  it  were, 

267 


THE    VULTURES 

a  ministry,  even  if  this  takes  no  more  dignified  a  form 
tlian  a  board  of  directors.  He  suspected  that  the  world 
contained  precisely  the  men  he  wanted,  if  he  could  only 
let  down  a  net  into  it  and  draw  them  up.  How,  other- 
wise, could  he  select  them  ?  So  he  did  the  usual  thing. 
He  looked  round  among  his  relations,  and,  failing 
them,  the  friends  of  his  youth.  Eor  an  emperor,  popu- 
larly supposed  to  have  the  whole  world  to  choose  from, 
has  no  larger  a  choice  than  any  bourgeois  looking  round 
his  own  small  world  for  a  satisfactory  executor. 

Coming  to  the  throne,  as  he  did,  in  the  midst  of  a 
losing  fight,  his  first  task  was  to  conclude  a  humiliating 
peace.  He  must  needs  bow  down  to  the  upstart  ad- 
venturer of  France,  who  had  tricked  England  into  a 
useless  war  in  order  to  steady  his  o^vn  tottering  throne. 

Alexander  II.,  moreover,  came  to  power  with  the 
avowed  intention  of  liberating  the  serfs,  which  inten- 
tion he  carried  out,  and  paid  for  with  his  own  life  in 
due  time.  Eussia  had  been  the  only  country  to  stand 
aloof  on  the  slave  question,  thus  branding  herself  in 
two  worlds  as  still  uncivilized.  The  young  Czar  knew 
that  such  a  position  was  untenable.  "  Without  the  serf 
the  Russian  Empire  must  crumble  away,"  his  advisers 
told  him.  "  With  the  serf  she  cannot  endure,"  he  an- 
swered. And  twenty-two  millions  of  men  were  set  free. 
In  this  act  he  stood  almost  alone;  for  hardly  a  single 
minister  was  with  him  heart  and  soul,  though  many 
obeyed  him  loyally  enough  against  their  own  convic- 
tions. Many  honestly  thought  that  this  must  be  the  end 
of  the  Russian  Empire. 

It  is  hard  to  go  against  the  advice  of  those  near  at 
hand ;  for  their  point  of  view  must  always  appear  to  be 
the  same  as  one's  own,  while  counsel  from  afar  comes 
as  the  word  of  one  who  is  looking  at  things  from  an- 

268 


THE     QUIET     CITY 

otlier  stand-point,  and  may  thus  be  more  easily  mis- 
taken. 

Alexander  II.,  called  suddenly  to  reign  over  one- 
tenth  part  of  the  human  race,  men  of  different  breed  and 
color,  of  the  three  great  contending  religions  and  a  hun- 
dred minor  churches,  was  himself  a  nervous,  impression- 
able man,  suffering  from  ill-health,  bowed  down  with 
the  weight  of  his  great  responsibility.  His  father  died 
in  his  arms,  broken-hearted,  bequeathing  him  an  em- 
pire invaded  by  the  armies  of  five  European  nations, 
hated  of  all  the  world,  despised  of  all  mankind.  Even 
to-day  there  is  a  sinister  sound  in  the  very  name  of  Rus- 
sian. Men  turn  to  look  twice  at  one  who  comes  from 
that  stupendous  empire.  It  is  said  that  an  hereditary 
melancholy  broods  beneath  the  weightiest  earthly  cro^vn. 
History  tells  that  none  wearing  it  has  ever  reached  a 
hale  old  age.  Soldiers  still  hearty,  still  wearing  the 
sword  they  have  carried  through  half  a  dozen  cam- 
paigns, bow  to-day  in  the  Winter  Palace  before  their 
sovereign,  having  taken  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  four 
successive  Czars. 

Half  in,  half  out  of  Europe,  Alexander  11.  awoke 
with  his  own  hand  the  great  nation  still  wrapped  in  the 
sleep  of  the  Middle  Ages,  only  to  find  that  he  had  stirred 
a  slumbering  poAver  whose  movements  were  soon  to 
prove  beyond  his  control.  He  poured  out  education  like 
water  upon  the  surface  of  a  vast  field  full  of  hidden 
seed,  which  must  inevitably  spring  up  wheat  or  tares — 
a  bountiful  harvest  of  good  or  a  terrific  growth  of  evil. 
He  made  reading  and  writing  compulsory  to  the  whole 
of  his  people.  With  a  stroke  of  the  pen  he  threw  aside 
the  last  prop  to  despotic  rule.  Yet  he  hoped  to  con- 
tinue Czar  of  All  the  Russias.  This  tall,  pale,  gentle, 
determined  man  was  a  man  of  mighty  courage.    When 

269 


THE     VULTUEES 

the  time  came  he  faced  the  consequence  of  his  own 
temerity  with  an  unflinching  eve. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?"  he  asked,  the  very  mo- 
ment after  he  had  been  saved  almost  by  a  miracle  from 
assassination.  For  he  knew  that  he  was  giving  more 
than  was  wise.  It  is  said  that  he  was  puzzled  and 
thoughtful  after  each  attempt  upon  his  life. 

The  war  with  Turkey  was  the  first  sign  that  Russia 
Avas  awakening — that  the  soldiers  knew  how  to  read  and 
write.  It  was  the  first  time  in  history  that  the  nation 
forced  a  Czar  to  declare  war,  and  Servia  was  full  of 
Russian  volunteers  fighting  for  Christian  Slavs  before 
the  Emperor  realized  that  he  must  fight — and  fight 
alone,  for  no  nation  in  Europe  would  help  him.  He  had 
taught  Russia  to  read ;  had  raised  the  veil  of  ignorance 
that  hung  between  his  people  and  the  rest  of  civilization. 
They  had  read  of  the  Bulgarian  atrocities,  and  there 
was  no  holding  them. 

To  rule  autocratically  what  was  then  the  vastest  em- 
pire in  the  world  was  in  itself  more  than  one  brain 
could  compass.  But  in  addition  to  his  own  internal 
troubles,  Alexander  II.  was  surrounded  by  European 
difficulties.  England,  his  steady,  deadly  enemy,  de- 
spite a  declaration  of  neutrality,  was  secretly  helping 
Turkey.  Austria,  as  usual,  the  dog  waiting  on  the 
threshold,  was  ready  to  side  with  the  winner — for  a 
consideration.  ISTo  wonder  this  man  was  always  weary. 
It  is  said  that  all  through  his  reign  he  received  and 
despatched  telegrams  at  any  hour  of  the  night. 

No  wonder  that  his  heart  was  hardened  towards  Po- 
land. The  most  liberal-minded  Czar  had  his  mean 
point,  as  every  man  must  have.  There  are  many  great 
and  good  men  who  will  write  a  check  readily  enough 
and  look  twice  at  a  penny.     There  are  many  who  will 

270 


THE     QUIET     CITY 

give  generously  with  one  hand  while  grasping  with  the 
other  that  which  is  really  the  property  of  their  neigh- 
bor.   Alexander's  mean  point  was  Poland. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  first  imperial  visit  to  Warsaw 
he  said,  in  the  cold,  calm  voice  which  was  so  hated  and 
feared :  "  Gentlemen,  let  us  have  no  more  dreams." 
Eleven  years  later  he  reminded  an  influential  deputa- 
tion of  Polish  nobles  of  the  unforgiven  and  unforgotten 
words,  commending  the  caution  to  their  attention  again. 
He  paid  frequent  visits  to  Warsaw  on  one  excuse  or  an- 
other. This  dreamer  would  have  no  dreaming  in  his 
dominion.  This  mean  man  must  ever  be  looking  at  his 
hoard.  The  chief  interest  in  the  study  of  a  human  life 
lies  around  the  inexplicable.  If  we  were  quite  con- 
sistent we  should  be  entirely  dull.  ISTo  one  knows  why 
this  liberal  autocrat  was  mean  to  Poland. 

From  Warsaw,  the  city  which  has  been  commanded 
to  stand  still,  Cartoner  travelled  across  plains  of  endless 
snow  towards  the  north.  He  found  as  he  progressed  a 
hundred  signs  of  the  awakening.  The  very  faces  of  the 
people  had  changed  since  he  last  looked  upon  them  only 
a  few  years  earlier.  These  people  were  now  a  nation, 
conscious  of  their  own  streng-th.  They  had  fought  in  a 
great  and  victorious  war,  not  because  they  had  been 
commanded  to  fight,  but  because  they  wanted  to.  They 
had  followed  with  understanding  the  diplomatic  war- 
fare that  succeeded  the  signing  of  the  treaty  of  San 
Stefano.  They  had  won  and  lost.  They  were  men,  and 
no  longer  driven  beasts. 

It  was  evening  when  Cartoner  arrived  at  St.  Peters- 
burg. The  long  northern  twilight  had  begun,  and  the 
last  glow  of  the  western  sky  was  reflected  on  the  golden 
dome  of  St.  Isaac's,  while  the  arrowy  spire  of  the  Ad- 
miralty shot  up  into  a  cloudless  sky. 

271 


THE     VULTUKES 

The  Warsaw  Railway  Station  is  in  a  quiet  part  of 
the  town,  and  the  streets  through  which  Cartoner  drove 
in  his  hired  sleigh  were  almost  deserted.  It  was  the 
hour  of  the  promenade  in  the  Summer  Garden,  or  the 
drive  in  the  l^ewski  Prospect,  so  that  all  the  leisured 
class  were  in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  St.  Peters- 
hurg  is,  moreover,  the  most  spacious  capital  in  the 
world,  where  there  is  more  room  than  the  inhabitants 
can  occupy,  where  the  houses  are  too  large  and  the 
streets  too  wide.  The  Catherine  Canal  Avas,  of  course, 
frozen,  and  its  broken  surface  had  a  dirty,  ill-kept  air, 
while  the  snow  was  spotted  with  rubbish  and  refuse, 
and  trodden  down  into  numberless  paths  and  crossings. 
Cartoner  looked  at  it  indifferently.  It  had  no  history 
yet.  The  streets  were  silent  beneath  their  cloak  of 
snow.  All  St.  Petersburg  is  silent  for  nearly  half  the 
year,  and  is  the  quietest  city  in  the  world,  excepting 
Venice. 

The  sleigh  sped  across  the  Nicholas  Bridge  to  the 
Vasili  Island.  The  river  showed  no  signs  of  spring  yet. 
The  usual  pathways  across  it  were  still  in  use.  The 
Vasili  Ostrov  is  less  busy  than  that  greater  part  of  the 
city  which  lies  across  the  river.  Behind  the  Academy 
of  Arts,  and  leading  out  of  the  Bolshoi  Prospect,  are  a 
number  of  parallel  streets  where  quiet  j)eople  live — law- 
yers and  merchants,  professors  at  the  university  or  at 
one  or  other  of  the  numerous  schools  and  colleges  facing 
the  river  and  looking  across  it  towards  the  English 
Quay. 

It  was  to  one  of  these  streets  that  Cartoner  had  told 
his  driver  to  proceed,  and  the  man  had  some  difficulty 
in  finding  the  number.  It  was  a  house  like  any  other 
in  the  street — like  any  other  in  any  other  street.  Eor 
St.  Petersburg  is  a  monotonous  town,  showing  a  flat  face 

272 


THE     QUIET     CITY 

to  the  world,  exhibiting  to  the  sky  a  flat  expanse  of  roof 
broken  here  and  there  by  some  startling  inequality,  the 
dagger-like  spire  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  the  great 
roof  of  the  Kasan  Cathedral,  the  dome  of  St.  Isaac's — 
the  largest  cathedral  in  the  world. 

When  the  sleigh  at  length  drew  up  with  a  shrill 
clang  of  bells  the  door-keeper  came  from  beneath  the 
great  porch  without  enthusiasm.  His  was  a  quiet  house, 
and  he  did  not  care  for  strangers,  especially  at  this  time, 
when  every  man  looked  askance  at  a  new-comer  and  the 
police  gave  the  dvorniks  no  peace.  He  seemed  to  recog- 
nize Cartoner,  however,  for  he  raised  his  hand  to  his 
peaked  cap  when  he  answered  tliat  the  gentleman  asked 
for  was  within. 

"  On  the  second  floor.  You  will  remember  the  door," 
he  said,  over  his  shoulder,  as  Cartoner,  having  paid  the 
driver,  hurried  towards  the  house,  leaving  the  dvornik 
to  bring  the  luggage. 

Cartoner's  summons  at  the  door  on  the  second  floor 
was  answered  by  a  clumsy  Russian  maid-servant,  who 
smiled  a  broad,  good-natured  recognition  when  she  saw 
him,  and,  turning  without  a  word,  led  the  way  along  a 
narrow  passage.  The  smell  of  tobacco  smoke  and  a  cer- 
tain bareness  of  wall  and  floor  suggested  a  bachelor's 
home.  The  maid  opened  the  door  of  a  room  and  stood 
aside  for  Cartoner  to  pass  in. 

Seated  near  an  open  wood-fire  was  a  man  with  griz- 
zled hair  and  a  short,  brown  beard,  which  had  the  look 
of  concealing  a  determined  chin.  He  was  in  the  act  of 
filling  a  wooden  pipe  from  a  jar  on  the  table,  and  he 
stood  up,  pipe  in  hand,  to  greet  the  new-comer. 

"  Ah !"  he  said.  "  I  was  wondering  if  you  would 
come,  or  if  you  had  got  other  work  to  do." 

"  ISTo,  I  am  at  the  same  work.    And  you  ?" 
18  273 


THE     VULTUKES 

"  As  you  see,"  replied  the  bearded  man,  dragging 
forward  a  chair  with  his  foot  and  seating  himself  again 
before  the  fire.  "  I  am  here  still,  where  yon  left  me" — 
he  pansed  to  make  a  brief  calenlation^ — ■"  five  years  ago. 
I  stayed  here  all  through  the  war — all  through  the  Ber- 
lin Congress,  when  it  was  not  good  to  be  an  English- 
man in  Petersburg.  But  I  stayed.  Tallow!  It  does 
not  sound  heroic,  but  the  world  must  have  its  tal- 
low. And  there  is  a  simplicity  about  commerce,  you 
know." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh — the  laugh  of  a  man  who  had 
tried  something  and  failed.  Something  that  was  not 
commerce,  for  his  voice  and  speech  had  a  ring  of  other 
things. 

"  Can  you  put  me  up  ?"  asked  Cartoner.  "  Only  for 
a  few  days,  perhaps." 

"  As  long  as  you  stay  in  Petersburg  you  stay  in  these 
rooms,"  rej)lied  the  other,  gravely. 

Cartoner  nodded  his  thanks  and  sat  down.  Their 
attitude  towards  each  other  had  the  repose  which  is  only 
existent  in  a  friendship  that  has  lasted  since  childhood. 

"Well?"  he  inquired. 

"  Gad !"  exclaimed  the  other,  "  we  are  in  a  queer 
way.  I  went  to  the  opera  the  other  evening.  He 
showed  his  face  in  the  imperial  box  and  the  house  was 
empty  in  half  an  hour.  He  always  drives  alone  in  his 
sleigh  now,  so  that  only  one  royal  life  may  go  at  a 
time.  They'll  get  him — they'll  get  him!  And  he 
knows  it." 

"  Fools  !"  said  Cartoner. 

"  Thev  are  worse  than  fools,"  answered  the  other. 
"  The  man  is  down,  and  they  strike  him.  His  asthma 
is  worse.  He  has  half  a  dozen  complaints.  His  policy 
has  failed.     It  was  the  finest  policy  ever  tried  in  Kus- 

2T4 


THE     QUIET     CITY 

sia.  He  is  the  finest  Czar  they  have  ever  had.  He  gave 
them  trial  by  jury;  he  abolished  corporal  punishment. 
Eools !  they  are  the  scum  of  this  earth,  Cartoner  I" 

"  I  know,"  replied  Cartoner,  in  his  gentle  way, 
"  students  who  cannot  learn — workmen  who  will  not 
work — women  whom  no  one  will  marry." 

"  Yes,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  serfs  that  he 
emancipated.  It  makes  one  sick  to  talk  of  them.  Let 
me  hear  about  yourself." 

"  Well,"  answered  Cartoner,  "  I  have  had  nothing  to 
eat  since  breakfast." 

"  That  is  all  you  have  to  tell  me  about  yourself  ?" 

"  That  is  all." 


XXXI 

THE  PAYMENT 

T  was  on  every  gossip's  tongue  in  St. 
Petersburg  that  Jeliaboff  had  been  ar- 
rested. 

"  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end," 
men  said.  "  They  will  now  catch  the 
others.  The  new  reign  of  terror  is  over." 
But  JeliaboflF  himself — a  dangerous  man  (one  of  the 
Terrorists),  the  chief  of  the  plot  to  blow  up  the  im- 
perial train  at  the  Alexandroff  Station — said  that  it 
was  not  so.  This  also,  the  mere  bravado  of  an  arrested 
criminal,  was  bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

For  two  years  the  most  extraordinary  agitation  of 
modern  days  had  held  Eussian  society  within  its  grip. 
x\ll  the  world  seemed  to  whisper.  Men  walking  in  the 
streets  turned  to  glance  over  their  shoulders  at  the  ap- 
proach of  a  step,  at  the  sound  of  a  sleigh-bell.  The 
women  were  in  the  secret,  too;  and  when  the  women 
touch  politics  they  are  politics  no  longer.  For  there 
should  be  no  real  emotion  in  politics;  only  the  stim- 
ulated emotion  of  the  platform. 

For  two  years  the  Czar  had  been  slowly  and  surely 
ostracized  by  a  persecution  which  was  as  cruel  as  it  was 
unreasoning. 

In  former  days  the  curious,  and  the  many  who  loved 
to  look  on  royalty,  had  studied  his  habits  and  hours 

276 


THE    PAYMENT 

to  tlie  end  that  they  might  gain  a  glimpse  of  him  or 
perhaps  a  bow  from  the  courteons  Emperor.  Now  his 
habits  and  his  daily  life  were  watched  for  quite  another 
purpose.  If  it  was  known  that  he  would  pass  through  a 
certain  street,  he  was  now  allowed  a  monopoly  of  that 
thoroughfare.  None  passed  nearer  to  the  Winter  Pal- 
ace than  he  could  help.  If  the  Czar  was  seen  to  ap- 
proach, men  hurried  in  the  opposite  direction;  women 
called  their  children  to  them.  He  was  a  leper  among 
his  own  people. 

"  Do  not  go  to  the  opera  to-morrow,"  one  lady  would 
say  to  another.  "  I  have  heard  that  the  Czar  is  to  be 
there." 

"  Do  not  pass  through  the  Little  Sadovaia,"  men  said 
to  one  another ;  "  the  street  is  mined.  Do  not  let  your 
wife  linger  in  the  Newski  Prospect;  it  is  honeycombed 
by  mines." 

The  Czar  withdrew  himself,  as  a  man  must  who  per- 
ceives that  others  shrink  from  him ;  as  the  leper  who 
sees  even  the  pitiful  draw  aside  his  cloak.  But  some 
ceremonies  he  would  not  relinquish ;  and  to  some  duties 
he  remained  faithful,  calmly  facing  the  risk,  which  he 
fully  recognized. 

He  went  to  the  usual  Sunday  review  on  the  12th  of 
March,  as  all  the  world  knows.  It  was  a  brilliant,  win- 
ter morning.  The  sun  shone  from  a  cloudless  sky  upon 
streets  and  houses  buried  still  beneath  their  winter  cov- 
ering of  snow.  The  houses  always  look  too  large  for 
their  inmates,  the  streets  too  wide  for  those  that  walk 
there.  St.  Petersburg  was  planned  on  too  large  a  scale 
by  the  man  who  did  everything  largely,  and  made  his 
window  looking  out  upon  EurojDe  a  bigger  window  than 
the  coldness  of  his  home  would  allow. 

The  review  passed  off  successfully.     The  Czar,  men 

277 


THE    VULTURES 

said,  was  in  good  spirits.  He  had  that  morning  signed 
a  decree  which  was  now  in  the  hands  of  Loris  Melikoif, 
and  would  to-morrow  be  given  to  the  world,  proving 
even  to  the  most  sceptical  for  the  hundredth  time  that 
he  had  at  heart  the  advance  of  Russia — the  greater  lib- 
erty of  his  people. 

Instead  of  returning  direct  to  the  Winter  Palace,  the 
Czar  paid  his  usual  visit  to  his  cousin,  the  Grand  Duch- 
ess Catherine.  He  quitted  her  palace  at  two  o'clock  in 
his  own  carriage,  accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  Cos- 
sacks. His  officers  followed  in  two  sleighs.  It  was 
never  known  which  way  he  would  take.  He  himself 
gave  the  order  to  the  coachman.  He  knew  the  streets 
as  thoroughly  as  the  driver  himself ;  for  he  had  always 
walked  in  them  unattended,  unheeded,  and  unknown — 
had  always  mixed  with  his  subjects.  This  was  no 
Erench  monarch  living  in  an  earthly  heaven  above  his 
people.  He  knew — always  had  known — what  men  said 
to  each  other  in  the  streets. 

He  gave  the  order  to  go  to  the  Winter  Palace  by  way 
of  the  Catherine  Canal,  which  was  not  the  direct  way. 
Had  he  passed  do^vn  the  IN^ewski  Prospect  half  of  that 
great  street  would  have  been  blown  to  the  skies.  The 
road  running  by  the  side  of  the  Catherine  Canal  was  in 
1881  a  quiet  enough  thoroughfare,  with  large  houses 
staring  blankly  across  the  frozen  canal.  The  canal  it- 
self was  none  too  clean  a  sight,  for  the  snow  was  old  and 
soiled  and  strewed  with  refuse.  In  some  places  there 
were  gardens  between  the  road  and  the  waterway,  but 
most  of  its  length  was  bounded  by  a  low  wall  and  a  rail- 


ing. 


The  road  itself  was  almost  deserted.  The  side  streets 
of  St.  Petersburg  are  quieter  than  the  smaller  thorough- 
fares of  any  other  city  in  the  world.     A  confectioner's 

278 


THE    PAYMENT 

boj  was  alone  on  the  pavement,  hurrying  along  and 
whistling  as  he  went  on  his  Sunday  errand  of  delivery. 
He  hardly  glanced  at  the  carriage  that  sped  past  him. 
Perhaps  he  saw  a  man  looking  over  the  low  wall  at  the 
approach  of  the  cavalcade.  Perhaps  he  saw  the  bomb 
thrown  and  heard  the  deafening  report.  Though  none 
can  say  what  he  heard  or  saw  at  that  minute,  for  he  was 
dead  the  next. 

The  bomb  had  fallen  under  the  carriage  at  the  back. 
A  Cossack  and  his  horse,  following  the  imperial  con- 
veyance, were  instantly  killed.  The  Czar  stepped  out 
from  amid  the  debris  on  to  the  torn  and  riven  snow. 
He  stumbled,  and  took  a  proffered  arm.  They  found 
blood  on  the  cushions  afterwards.  At  that  moment  the 
only  thought  in  his  mind  seemed  to  be  anger,  and  he 
glanced  at  the  dying  Cossack — at  the  dead  baker-boy. 
The  pavement  and  the  road  were  strewn  with  wounded 
— some  lying  quite  still,  others  attempting  to  lift  them- 
selves with  numbed  and  charred  limbs.  It  was  very 
cold. 

Eyssakoff,  who  had  thrown  the  bomb,  was  already  in 
the  hands  of  his  captors.  Had  the  crowd  been  larger, 
had  the  official  element  been  weaker,  he  would  have 
been  torn  to  pieces  then  and  there.  The  Czar  went 
towards  him.  Some  say  that  he  spoke  to  him.  But  no 
clear  account  of  those  few  moments  was  ever  obtained. 
The  noise,  the  confusion,  the  terror  of  it  seemed  to  have 
deadened  the  faculties  of  all  who  took  part  in  this 
tragedy,  and  they  could  only  act  mechanically,  as  men 
who  were  walking  in  their  sleep. 

Already  a  crowd  had  collected.  Every  moment  added 
to  its  numbers. 

"  Stand  back !  Stand  back !  A  second  bomb  is  com- 
ing !"  cried  more  than  one  voice.     There  are  a  hundred 

2Y9 


THE    VULTUKES 

witnesses  ready  to  testify  that  they  heard  this  strange 
warning.  But  no  man  seemed  to  heed  it.  There  are 
moments  in  the  lives  of  men  when  their  contempt  for 
death  raises  them  at  one  bound  to  the  heights  of  im- 
mortality. 

Those  around  the  Czar  urged  him  to  quit  the  spot  at 
once.  In  such  a  crowd  of  people  there  must  be  some 
enemies.  At  last  he  turned  and  went  towards  the  sleigh 
which  had  been  brought  forward  to  take  the  place  of 
the  shattered  carriage.  He  was  pale  now,  and  walked 
with  an  effort. 

The  onlookers  stood  aside  to  make  a  passage  for  him. 
Many  raised  their  hats,  and  made  silent  manifestations 
of  their  respect  and  pity. 

One  man,  alone,  stood  with  folded  arms,  hat  on  head, 
and  watched  the  Czar.  He  was  on  the  pavement,  with 
his  back  to  the  iron  gate  leading  to  the  canal.  The 
pavement  was  not  six  feet  wide,  and  the  Czar  came 
along  it  towards  him.  For  a  moment  they  faced  each 
other.  Then  the  freed  son  of  the  serf  raised  both  hands 
and  threw  his  missile  on  the  stones  between  them — at 
the  feet  of  the  man  who  had  cut  the  chain  of  his  slavery. 

It  was  the  serf  who  shrieked.  The  Emperor  uttered 
no  plaint.  A  puff  of  white-gray  smoke  rose  to  heaven. 
And  those  who  watched  there  no  doubt  took  note  of  it. 

A  shower  of  snow  and  human  debris  was  thrown  into 
the  air.  The  very  stones  of  the  pavement  were  dis- 
placed. 

The  Emperor  was  on  the  ground  against  the  railings. 
He  was  blind.  One  leg  was  gone,  the  other  torn  and 
mutilated  to  the  hip.  It  was  pitiful.  He  uttered  no 
sound,  but  sought  to  move  his  bare  limbs  on  the  snow. 

This  was  the  end — the  payment.  He  discharged  his 
debt  without  a  murmur.     He  had  done  the  right — 

280 


^  ^R;iv%j?Mf^!;^B^. 


r/rf 


C 


//>,• 


"FOR   A   MOMENT   THKY    FACED   EACH   OTHEU 


THE    PAYMEHT 

against  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  against  his  crown  and 
his  own  greatness,  against  his  purse  and  his  father's 
teaching.  He  had  followed  the  dictates  of  his  own  con- 
science. He  had  done  more  than  any  other  Czar,  be- 
fore or  since,  for  the  good  of  Russia.  And  this  was  the 
payment ! 

The  other — the  man  who  had  thrown  the  bomb — was 
already  dead.  The  terrific  explosion  had  sent  his  soul 
hard  after  the  puff  of  white  smoke,  and  in  the  twin- 
kling of  an  eye  he  stood  at  the  bar  of  the  Great  Assize. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  made  a  good  defence  there,  and 
did  not  stammer  in  the  presence  of  his  Judge. 

The  Czar's  gentlemen  in  attendance  were  all  killed  or 
wounded.  He  was  left  to  the  care  of  his  Cossack  escort, 
who  were  doing  what  they  could  to  succor  him — 
though,  being  soldiers,  they  knew  that  he  had  passed 
beyond  all  human  aid.  The  crowd  parted  to  make  way 
for  a  tall  man  who  literally  threw  aside  all  who  stood 
in  his  path.  It  was  the  Emperor's  brother,  the  Grand 
Duke  Michael,  brought  hither  by  the  sound  of  the  first 
explosion.  He  knelt  on  the  blood-stained  snow  and 
spoke  to  the  dying  man. 

The  sleigh  towards  which  he  had  been  walking  was 
now  brought  forward  again,  and  the  Czar  was  lifted 
from  the  snow.  There  was  no  doctor  near.  The  mob 
drew  back  in  dumb  horror.  In  the  crowd  stood  Car- 
toner,  brought  hither  by  that  instinct  which  had  made 
him  first  among  the  Vultures — the  instinct  that  took 
him  to  the  battle-field,  where  he  was  called  upon  to  share 
the  horror  and  reap  none  of  the  glory. 

His  quiet  eyes  were  ablaze  for  once  with  a  sudden, 
helpless  anger.  He  could  not  even  give  way  to  the  first 
and  universal  impulse  to  kill  the  killer. 

He  stood  motionless  through  the  brief  silence  that 

281 


THE     VULTUKES 

succeeded  to  the  second  explosion.  There  is  a  silence 
that  follows  those  great  events  brought  about  by  a  man 
which  seems  to  call  aloud  for  a  word  from  God. 

Then,  because  it  was  his  duty  to  draw  his  buzzing 
thoughts  together,  to  be  watchful  and  quick,  to  think 
and  act  while  others  stood  aghast,  he  took  one  last  look 
at  the  dying  Emperor,  and  turned  to  make  his  way  from 
the  crowd  while  yet  he  could.  He  had  pieced  together, 
with  the  slow  accuracy  that  Deulin  envied  him,  the 
small  scraps  of  information  obtained  from  one  source 
or  another  in  Warsaw,  in  London  from  Captain  Cable, 
in  St.  Petersburg  from  half  a  dozen  friends.  This  was 
Poland's  opportunity.  A  sudden  inspiration  had  led 
him  to  look  for  the  centre  of  the  evil,  not  in  Warsaw, 
but  in  St.  Petersburg.  And  that  which  other  men 
called  his  luck  had  brought  him  within  sound  of  the 
first  explosion  by  the  side  of  the  Catherine  Canal. 

He  passed  through  a  back  street  and  out  into  wider 
thoroughfares.  He  hurried  as  much  as  was  prudent, 
and  in  a  few  moments  was  beyond  the  zone,  as  it  were, 
of  alarm  and  confusion.  A  sleigh  came  towards  him. 
The  driver  was  half  asleep,  and  looked  about  him  with 
a  placid,  stupid  face.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  heard 
nothing. 

Cartoner  called  him,  and  did  not  wait  for  him  to 
descend  to  unhook  the  heavy  leather  apron. 

"  The  telegraph  office,"  he  said. 

And  when  the  driver  had  settled  down  to  his  usual 
breakneck  speed,  he  urged  him  to  go  faster.  The  passers 
on  the  pavement  were  going  about  their  ordinary  busi- 
ness now,  bent  on  paying  Sunday  calls  or  taking  Sun- 
day exercise.  ISTone  knew  yet  what  had  taken  place  a 
few  hundred  yards  away. 

Cartoner  sat  with  clinched  teeth  and  thought.     He 

282 


THE    PAYME^^T 

had  a  strong  grasp  over  his  own  emotions,  but  his  limbs 
were  shaking  inside  his  thick  furs.  He  made  a  supreme 
effort  of  memory.  It  was  a  moment  in  a  lifetime,  and 
he  knew  it.  Which  is  not  always  the  case,  for  great 
moments  often  appear  great  only  when  we  look  back  at 
them. 

He  had  not  his  code-books  with  him.  He  dared  not 
carry  them  in  the  streets  of  St.  Petersburg,  where 
arrest  might  meet  him  at  any  corner  by  mistake  or  on 
erroneous  suspicion.  His  head  was  stored  with  a  thou- 
sand things  to  be  remembered.  Could  he  trust  his 
memory  to  find  the  right  word,  or  the  word  that  came 
nearest  to  the  emergency  of  this  moment  ?  Could  he 
telegraph  that  the  Emperor  was  dead  when  he  had  last 
seen  him  living,  but  assuredly  feeling  his  way  across 
the  last  frontier?  The  Czar  must  assuredly  be  d^ad 
before  a  telegram  despatched  now  could  reach  England. 
It  was  a  risk.  But  Cartoner  was  of  a  race  of  men  who 
seem  to  combine  with  an  infinite  patience  the  readiness 
to  take  a  heavy  risk  at  a  given  moment. 

The  telegraph  office  was  quiet.  The  clerks  were  dig- 
nified and  sedate  behind  their  caging — stiff  and  formal 
within  their  semi-military  uniform.  They  knew  noth- 
ing. As  soon  as  the  news  reached  them  the  inexorable 
wire  windows  would  be  shut  down,  and  no  unofficial 
telegrams  could  be  despatched  from  Russia. 

Cartoner  had  five  minutes'  start,  perhaps,  in  front 
of  the  whole  world.  Five  minutes  might  suffice  to  flash 
his  news  beyond  the  reach  of  recall. 

The  sense  of  discipline  was  strong  in  him.  His  first 
message  was  to  London — a  single  word  from  the  store- 
house of  his  infallible  memory. 

He  sent  a  second  telegram  to  Deulin,  in  Warsaw, 
which  was  no  longer.     The  first  message  might  reach 

283     . 


THEVULTUKES 

its  destination.  The  chances  of  the  second  were  not  so 
good,  and  the  second  might  mean  life  or  death  to  Wan- 
da. He  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  double  doors. 
He  might  even  gain  a  minnte  there,  he  thought,  by 
simulating  clumsiness  with  the  handle  should  any  one 
wish  to  enter  in  haste.  He  was  at  the  outer  door  when 
a  man  hurried  up  the  steps.  This  was  a  small  man, 
with  a  pale  and  gentle  face,  and  eyes  in  which  a  dull 
light  seemed  to  smoulder. 

Cartoner  detained  him  on  the  step  for  quite  half  a 
minute  by  persistently  turning  the  handle  the  wrong 
way.  When  at  length  he  was  allowed  to  enter,  he  swore 
at  the  Englishman  in  a  low  voice  as  he  passed,  which 
Captain  Cable  would  have  recognized  had  he  heard  it. 
The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  the  twilight  be- 
tween the  doors.  Each  knew  that  the  other  knew.  Then 
the  little  man  passed  in.  The  front  of  his  black  coat 
had  a  white  stain  upon  it,  as  if  he  had  been  holding  a 
loaf  of  bread  under  his  arm.  Cartoner  noticed  it,  and 
remembered  it  afterwards,  when  he  learned  that  the 
bombs  which  seem  to  have  been  sown  broadcast  in  the 
streets  of  St.  Petersburg  that  day  were  painted  white. 

He  crossed  the  square  to  the  Winter  Palace,  and 
stood  with  the  silent  crowd  there  until  the  bells  told  all 
Petersburg  the  news  that  the  mightiest  monarch  had 
been  called  to  stand  before  a  greater  than  any  earthly 
throne. 


XXXII 

A  LOVE-LETTER 

?HE  next  morning  Miss  ISTetty  Cahere 
took  her  usual  walk  in  the  Saski  Gar- 
dens. It  was  much  warmer  at  Warsaw 
than  at  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  snow 
had  melted,  except  where  it  lay  in  gray 
heaps  on  either  side  of  the  garden  walks. 
The  trees  were  not  budding  yet,  but  the  younger  bark 
of  the  small  branches  was  changing  color.  The  first 
hidden  movements  of  spring  were  assuredly  astir,  and 
ISTetty  felt  kindly  towards  all  mankind. 

She  wished  at  times  that  there  were  more  people  in 
Warsaw  to  be  kind  to.  It  is  dull  work  being  persistent- 
ly amiable  to  one's  elderly  relatives.  Netty  sometimes 
longed  for  a  little  more  excitement,  especially,  perhaps, 
for  that  particular  form  of  excitement  which  leads  one- 
half  of  the  world  to  deck  itself  in  bright  colors  in  the 
spring  for  the  greater  pleasure  of  the  other  half. 

She  wished  that  Cartoner  would  come  back;  for  he 
was  an  unsolved  problem  to  her,  and  there  had  been 
very  few  unsolved  male  problems  in  her  brief  experi- 
ence. She  had  usually  found  men  very  easy  to  under- 
stand, and  the  failure  to  achieve  her  simple  purpose  in 
this  instance  aroused,  perhaps,  an  additional  attention. 
She  thought  it  was  that,  but  she  was  not  quite  sure.  She 
had  not  arrived  at  a  clear  definition  in  her  own  mind 

285 


THE    VULTUEES 

as  to  what  slie  thought  of  Cartoner.  She  was  quite  sure, 
however,  that  he  was  different  from  other  men. 

She  had  not  seen  Kosmaroff  again,  and  the  memory 
of  her  strange  interview  with  him  had  lost  sharpness. 
But  she  was  conscious  of  a  conviction  that  he  had  mere- 
ly to  come  again,  and  he  would  regain  at  once  the  place 
he  had  so  suddenly  and  violently  taken  in  her  thoughts. 
She  knew  that  he  was  in  the  background  of  her  mind, 
as  it  were,  and  might  come  forward  at  any  moment. 
She  often  walked  down  the  Bednarska  to  the  river,  and 
displayed  much  interest  in  the  breaking  up  of  the  ice. 

As  to  Prince  Martin  Bukaty,  she  had  definitely  set- 
tled that  he  was  nice.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  word  nice 
as  applied  to  the  character  of  a  young  man  dimly  sug- 
gests a  want  of  interest.  He  was  so  open  and  frank 
that  there  was  really  no  mystery  whatever  about  him. 
And  !N^etty  rather  liked  a  mystery.  Of  course  it  was 
most  interesting  that  he  should  be  a  prince.  Even 
Aunt  Julie,  that  great  teacher  of  equality,  closed  her 
lips  after  speaking  of  the  Bukatys,  with  an  air  of  tast- 
ing something  pleasant.  It  was  a  great  pity  that  the 
Bukatys  were  so  poor.  ISTetty  gave  a  little  sigh  when 
she  thought  of  their  poverty. 

In  the  mean  time,  Martin  was  the  only  person  at 
hand.  She  did  not  count  Paul  Deulin,  who  was  quite 
old,  of  course,  though  interesting  enough  when  he  chose 
to  be.  ISTetty  walked  backward  and  forward  down  the 
broad  walk  in  the  middle  of  those  gardens,  which  the 
government  have  so  frequently  had  to  close  against  pub- 
lic manifestations,  and  wondered  why  Martin  was  so 
long  in  coming.  Eor  the  chance  meetings  had  gradually 
resolved  themselves  into  something  very  much  like  an 
understanding,  if  not  a  distinct  appointment.  All  peo- 
ple engaging  in  the  game  of  love  should  be  warned  that 

286 


A    LOVE-LETTER 

it  is  a  game  wliicH  never  stands  still,  but  must  move 
omvard  or  backward.  You  may  play  it  one  day  in 
jest,  and  find  that  it  must  be  played  in  earnest  next 
time.  You  may  never  take  it  up  just  where  you  left  it, 
for  the  stake  must  always  be  either  increasing  or  dimin- 
ishing. And  this  is  what  makes  it  rather  an  interesting 
game.  For  you  may  never  tell  what  it  may  gi'ow  to, 
and  while  it  is  in  progress,  none  ever  believe  that  it  will 
have  an  end. 

j^etty  liked  Martin  very  much.  Had  he  been  a  rich 
prince  instead  of  a  poor  one,  she  Avould,  no  doubt,  have 
liked  him  very  much  better.  And  it  is  a  thousand  pities 
that  more  young  persons  have  not  their  affections  in 
such  practical  and  estimable  control.  Though,  to  be 
strictly  just,  it  is  young  men  who  are  guilty  in  this 
respect,  much  more  than  the  maidens  with  whom  they 
fall  in  love.  It  is  rare,  in  fact,  that  a  young  girl  is 
oblivious  to  the  practical  side  of  that  which  many 
mothers  teach  them  to  be  the  business  of  their  lives. 
But  then  it  is  very  rare  that  a  girl  is  in  love  with  the 
man  she  marries.  Sometimes  she  thinks  she  is.  Some- 
times she  does  not  even  go  so  far  as  that. 

K^etty  was,  no  doubt,  engaged  in  these  and  other 
golden  dreams  of  maidenhood  as  she  walked  in  the 
Saski  Gardens  this  March  morning.  The  faces  of  those 
who  passed  her  were  tranquil  enough.  The  news  of 
yesterday's  doings  in  St.  Petersburg  had  not  reached 
Warsaw,  or,  at  all  events,  had  not  been  given  to  the 
public  yet.  Even  rumor  is  leaden-footed  in  this  back- 
ward country. 

Presently  ISTetty  sat  down.  Martin  had  never  kept 
her  waiting,  and  she  felt  angry  and  rather  more  anxious 
to  see  him,  perhaps,  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 
The  seats  were,  of  course,  deserted,  for  the  air  was  cold. 

287 


THE     VULTUKES 

Down  tlie  whole  length  of  the  gardens  there  was  only 
one  other  occupant  of  the  polished  stone  benches — an 
old  man,  sitting  huddled  up  in  his  shabby  sheepskin 
coat.  He  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  thought,  or  in  the 
dull  realization  of  his  own  misery,  and  took  no  note  of 
the  passers. 

ISTetty  hardly  glanced  at  him.  She  was  looking  im- 
patiently towards  the  Kotzebue  gate,  which  was  the 
nearest  to  the  Bukaty  Palace  of  all  the  entrances  to  the 
Saski  Gardens.  At  length  she  saw  Martin,  not  in  the 
gardens,  but  in  the  Kotzebue  Street  itself.  She  recog- 
nized his  hat  and  fair  hair  through  the  railings.  He 
was  walking  with  some  one  who  might  almost  have  been 
Kosmaroff,  better  dressed  than  usual.  But  they  parted 
hurriedly  before  she  could  make  sure,  and  Martin  came 
towards  the  gate  of  the  gardens.  He  had  evidently 
seen  her  and  recognized  her,  but  he  did  not  come  to  her 
with  his  usual  joyous  hurry.  He  paused,  and  looked 
all  ways  before  quitting  the  narrower  path  and  coming 
out  into  the  open. 

Netty  was  at  the  lower  end  of  the  central  avenue, 
close  to  the  old  palace  of  the  King  of  Saxony,  where 
there  is  but  little  traffic ;  for  the  two  principal  thorough- 
fares are  at  the  farther  corner  of  the  gardens,  near  to 
the  two  market-places  and  the  Jewish  quarter; 

II  thus  happened  that  there  was  no  one  in  ^Netty's 
immediate  vicinity  except  the  old  man,  huddled  up  in 
his  ragged  coat.  Martin  paused  to  satisfy  himself  that 
he  was  not  followed,  and  then  came  towards  her,  but 
ISTetty  could  see  that  he  did  not  intend  to  stop  and  speak. 
He  did  not  even  bow  as  he  approached,  but  passing  close 
by  her  he  dropped  a  folded  note  at  her  feet,  and  walked 
on  without  looking  round. 

There  were  others  passing  now  in  either  direction, 

288 


A    LOVE-LETTEK 

"but  Xettj  seemed  to  know  exactly  how  to  act.  She  sat 
with  her  foot  on  the  note  until  they  had  gone.  Then 
she  stooped  and  picked  up  the  paper.  The  precautions 
were  unnecessary,  it  seemed,  for  no  one  was  even  look- 
ing in  her  direction. 

"  I  must  not  speak  to  you,"  Martin  wrote,  "  for  there 
is  danger  in  it — not  to  me,  but  to  yourself.  That  of 
which  you  will  not  let  me  tell  you  is  for  to-night. 
Whatever  you  hear  or  see,  do  not  leave  your  rooms  at 
the  Europe.  I  have  already  provided  for  your  safety. 
There  is  great  news,  but  no  one  knows  it  yet.  What- 
ever happens,  I  shall  always  be  thinking  of  you,  and — 
no!  I  must  not  say  that.  But  to-morrow  I  may  be 
able  to  say  it — who  knows  ?  I  shall  walk  to  the  end 
of  the  garden  and  back  again ;  but  I  must  not  even 
bow  to  you.  If  you  go  away  before  I  pass  again, 
leave  something  on  the  seat  that  I  may  keep  until  I 
see  you  again — your  glove  or  a  flower,  to  be  my  talis- 
man." 

Xetty  smiled  as  she  read  the  letter,  and  glanced  at 
Martin  down  the  length  of  the  broad  walk,  with  the 
tolerant  softness  still  in  her  eyes.  She  rather  liked  his 
old-fashioned  chivalry,  which  is  certainly  no  longer 
current  to-day,  and  would,  perhaps,  be  out  of  place  be- 
tween two  young  persons  united  fondly  by  a  common 
sport  or  a  common  taste  in  covert-coating. 

Martin  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  gardens  now,  and  in 
a  minute  would  turn  and  come  towards  her  again.  She 
had  not  long  in  which  to  think  and  to  make  up  her  mind. 
She  had,  as  Martin  wrote,  prevented  him  from  telling 
her  of  those  political  matters  in  which  he  was  engaged. 
But  she  knew  that  events  were  about  to  take  place  which 
might  restore  the  fortunes  of  the  Bukatys.  Should 
these  fortunes  be  restored  she  knew  that  the  prince 
^^  289 


THE     VULTUKES 

would  be  the  first  man  in  Poland.  He  might  even  be 
a  king.  For  the  crown  had  gone  by  ballot  in  the  days 
when  Poland  Avas  a  monarchy. 

ISTetty  had  some  violets  pinned  in  the  front  of  her 
jacket.  She  thoughtfully  removed  them,  and  sat  look- 
ing straight  in  front  of  her — absorbed  in  maiden  calcu- 
lation. If  Prince  Bukaty  should  be  first  in  Poland, 
Prince  Martin  must  assuredly  be  second.  She  laid 
the  violets  on  the  stone  seat,  Martin  had  turned  now, 
though  he  was  still  far  away.  She  looked  towards  him, 
still  thinking  rapidly.  He  was  a  man  of  honor.  She 
knew  that.  She  had  fully  gauged  the  honor  of  more 
than  one  man ;  had  found  it  astonishingly  reliable. 
The  honor  of  women  was  quite  a  different  question. 
That  which  Prince  Martin  said  in  the  day  of  adversity 
he  would  assuredly  adhere  to  in  other  circumstances. 
"  Besides — "  And  she  smiled  a  thoughtful  smile  of 
conscious  power  as  she  bent  her  head  to  rebutton  her 
jacket  and  arrange  her  furs. 

She  tore  the  letter  into  small  pieces  and  threw  it  be- 
hind the  heap  of  snow  at  the  back  of  the  seat  upon 
which  she  sat.  Then  she  rose,  looked  at  the  bunch  of 
violets  still  lying  where  she  had  laid  them,  and  walked 
slowly  away.  She  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  the  old 
man  sitting  beneath  the  leafless  trees  at  the  other  side  of 
the  broad  avenue.  He  sat  huddled  within  the  high  col- 
lar of  his  coat  and  heeded  nothing.  There  was  no  one 
near  to  the  seat  she  had  just  vacated,  and  Martin  was 
now  going  towards  it.  She  hurried  to  the  Saxon  Palace, 
and  as  she  passed  beneath  its  arches  turned  just  in  time 
to  see  Martin  bend  over  the  stone  seat  and  take  up  his 
talisman.  He  did  it  without  disguise  or  haste.  Any 
one  may  pick  up  a  flower,  especially  one  that  has  been 
dropped  by  a  pretty  girl. 

290 


A    LOVE-LETTEK 

Martin  walked  on,  and  turned  to  the  left  down  the 
path  that  leads  to  the  Kotzebue  gate. 

Then  the  old  man  on  the  seat  nearly  opposite  to  that 
npon  which  ISTetty  had  been  sitting  seemed  to  arouse 
himself  from  the  lethargy  of  misery.  He  turned  his 
head  within  his  high  collar,  and  watched  Martin  until 
he  was  out  of  sight.  Netty  had  disappeared  almost  at 
once  beneath  the  arches  of  the  covered  passages  of  the 
palace. 

After  a  pause  the  old  man  rose,  and  crossing  the  path- 
way, sat  down  on  the  seat  vacated  by  Netty.  He  waited 
there  a  few  minutes  until  the  passers-by  had  their  backs 
turned  towards  him,  and  there  was  no  one  near  enough 
to  notice  his  movements.  Then  he  stepped,  nimbly 
enough,  across  the  bank  of  gray  snow,  and  collected  the 
pieces  of  the  letter  which  Netty  had  thrown  there.  He 
brought  them  back  to  the  stone  seat  and  spread  them 
out  there,  like  parts  of  a  puzzle.  He  was,  it  seemed, 
an  expert  at  such  things ;  for  in  a  moment  he  had  them 
in  order,  and  had  pieced  together  the  upper  half  of  the 
paper.  Moreover,  he  must  have  been  a  linguist;  the 
note  was  written  in  English,  and  this  Warsaw  waif 
of  the  public  gardens  seemed  to  read  it  without  diffi- 
culty. 

"  That  of  which  you  will  not  let  me  tell  you  is  for 
to-night,"  he  read,  and  instantly  felt  for  his  watch 
within  the  folds  of  his  ancient  clothing.  It  was  not 
yet  mid-day.  But  the  man  seemed  suddenly  in  a  flurry, 
as  if  there  were  more  to  be  done  before  nightfall  than 
he  could  possibly  compass. 

He  collected  the  papers  and  placed  them  carefully 
inside  a  shabby  purse.  Then  he  rose  and  departed  in 
the  direction  of  the  governor  -  general's  palace.  He 
must  have  been  pressed  for  time,  because  he  quite  for^ 

291 


THE    y  U  L  T  U  K  E  S 

got  to  walk  with  the  deliberation  that  would  have  be- 
seemed his  apparent  years. 

J^etty  walked  round  the  outside  of  the  gardens,  and 
ultimately  turned  into  the  Senatorska,  the  street  recom- 
mended to  her  by  her  uncle  as  being  composed  of  the 
best  shops  in  the  town.  Oddly  enough,  she  met  Joseph 
Mangles  there — not  loitering  near  the  windows,  but 
hurrying  along. 

"  Ah !"  he  said,  "  thought  I  might  meet  you  here." 

He  was,  it  appeared,  as  simple  as  other  old  gentlemen, 
and  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  if  I^etty  was  out-of- 
doors  she  must  necessarily  be  in  the  Senatorska.  He 
suited  his  pace  to  hers.  His  head  was  thrust  forward, 
and  he  appeared  to  have  something  to  think  about,  for 
he  offered  no  remark  for  some  minutes. 

"  The  mail  is  in,"  he  then  observed,  in  his  usual 
lugubrious  tone,  as  if  the  post  had  brought  him  his 
death-warrant. 

"  Ah !"  answered  !N'etty,  glancing  up  at  him.  She 
was  sure  that  something  had  happened.  "  Have  you  had 
important  news  ?" 

"  Had  nothing  by  the  mail,"  he  answered,  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him.  And  Netty  asked  no  more 
questions. 

"  Your  aunt  Jooly,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  has  had 
an  interesting  mail.  She  has  been  offered  the  presi- 
dency— " 

"  Of  the  United  States  ?"  asked  'Nettj,  with  a  little 
laugh,  seeing  that  Joseph  paused. 

"  ISTot  yet,"  he  answered,  with  deep  gravity.  "  Of 
the  Massachusetts  Women  Bachelors'  Federation." 

"  Oh !" 

"  She'll  accept,"  opined  Joseph  P.  Mangles,  lugubri- 
ously. 

292 


A    LOVE-LETTER 

"  Is  it  a  great  honor  ?" 

"  There  are  different  sorts  of  greatness,"  Joseph  re- 
plied. 

"  What  is  the  Massachusetts  Women  Bachelors'  Fed- 
eration ?" 

Joseph  Mangles  did  not  reply  immediately.  He 
stepped  out  into  the  road  to  allo\/  a  lady  to  pass.  He 
was  an  American  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  and  still 
offered  to  the  stronger  sex  that  which  they  intend  to 
take  for  themselves  in  future. 

"  Think  it  is  like  the  blue-ribbon  army,"  he  said, 
when  he  returned  to  ISTetty's  side.  "  The  sight  of  the 
ribbon  induces  the  curious  to  offer  the  abstainer  drink. 
The  Massachusetts  Bachelor  Women  advertise  their 
membership  of  the  Federation,  just  to  see  if  there  is 
any  man  around  who  will  induce  'em  to  resign." 

"  Is  Aunt  Julie  pleased  ?"  asked  iSTetty. 

"  Almighty,"  was  the  brief  reply.  "  And  she  will 
accept  it.  She  will  marry  the  paid  secretary.  They 
have  a  paid  secretary.  President  usually  marries  him. 
He  is  not  a  bachelor-woman.  They're  mostly  worms — 
the  men  that  help  women  to  make  fools  of  themselves." 

This  was  very  strong  language  for  Uncle  Joseph,  who 
usually  seemed  to  have  a  latent  admiration  for  his 
gifted  sister's  greatness.  I^etty  suspected  that  he  was 
angry,  or  put  out  by  something  else,  and  made  the 
Massachusetts  Women  Bachelors  bear  the  brunt  of  his 
displeasure. 

"  She  is  a  masterful  woman  is  Aunt  Jooly,"  he  said ; 
"  she'll  give  him  his  choice  between  dismissal  and — an 
earthly  paradise." 

ISTetty  laughed  soothingly,  and  glanced  up  at  him 
again.  He  was  walking  along  with  huge,  lanky  strides, 
much  more  hurriedly  than  he  was  aware  of.    His  head 

293 


THE    yULTUKES 

was  thrust  forward,  and  his  chin  went  first  as  if  to  push 
a  way  through  a  crowded  world. 

And  it  was  borne  in  upon  ISTettj  that  Uncle  Joseph 
had  received  some  order;  that  he  was  pluming  his 
ragged  old  wings  for  flight. 


XXXIII 

THIN  ICE 

|T  was  not  yet  mid-day  when  Paul  Deulin 
called  at  the  Bukaty  Palace. 

"  Is  the  prince  in  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is 
he  busy?"  he  added,  when  the  servant 
had  stood  back  with  a  gesture  invit- 
ing him  to  enter.  But  the  man  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  with  a  smile.  The  prince,  it 
appeared,  was  never  busy.  Deulin  found  him,  in  fact, 
in  an  arm-chair  in  his  study,  reading  a  German  news- 
paper. 

The  prince  looked  at  him  over  the  folded  sheet. 
They  Lad  known  each  other  since  boyhood,  and  could 
read  perhaps  more  in  each  other's  wrinkled  and  drawn 
faces  than  the  eyes  of  a  younger  generation  were  able 
to  perceive.  The  prince  pointed  to  the  vacant  arm- 
chair at  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace.  Deulin  took 
the  chair  with  that  leisureliness  of  movement  and  de- 
meanor of  wdiich  Lady  Orlay,  and  Cartoner,  and  others 
who  were  intimate  with  him,  knew  the  inner  meaning. 
His  eyes  were  oddly  bright. 

They  waited  until  the  servant  had  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  even  then  they  did  not  speak  at  once, 
but  sat  looking  at  each  other  in  the  glow  of  the  wood- 
fire.  Then  Deulin  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  made, 
with  both  hands  outspread,  a  gesture  indicative  of  in- 
finite pity. 

295 


THE    yULTUKES 


a 


So  you  know  ?"  said  the  prince,  grimly. 

"  I  knew  at  eight  o'clock  this  morning.  Cartoner 
advised  me  of  it  by  a  cipher  telegram." 

"  Cartoner  ?"  said  the  prince,  interrogatively. 

"  Cartoner  is  in  Petersburg.  He  went  there  pre- 
sumably to  attend  this — pleasing  denouement." 

The  prince  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  How  well,"  he  said,  folding  his  newspaper,  and  lay- 
ing it  aside  reflectively — "  how  well  that  man  knows 
his  business.    But  why  did  he  telegraph  to  you  ?" 

"  We  sometimes  do  each  other  a  good  turn,"  explained 
Deulin,  rather  curtly.  "  It  must  have  happened  yes- 
terday afternoon.    One  can  only  hope  that — it  was  soon 


over." 


The  prince  laughed,  and  looked  across  at  the  French- 
man with  a  glitter  beneath  his  shaggy  brows. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  you  must  not  ask  me  to  get 
up  any  sentiment  on  this  occasion.  Do  not  let  us  at- 
tempt to  be  anything  but  what  God  made  us — plain 
men,  with  a  few  friends,  whom  one  would  regret;  and 
a  number  of  enemies,  of  whose  death  one  naturally 
learns  with  equanimity.  The  man  was  a  thief.  He  was 
a  great  man  and  in  a  great  position,  which  only  made 
him  the  greater  thief." 

The  prince  moved  his  crippled  legs  with  an  effort  and 
contemplated  the  fire. 

"  He  is  dead,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  and  there 
is  an  end  to  it.  I  do  not  pray  that  he  may  go  to  eternal 
punishment.  I  only  want  him  to  be  dead;  and  he  is 
dead.    Voila !  it  is  a  matter  of  rejoicing." 

"  You  are  a  ruffian ;  I  always  said  you  were  a  ruf- 
fian," said  Deulin,  gravely. 

"  I  am  a  man,  my  friend,  who  has  an  object  in  life. 
An  object,  moreover,  which  cannot  take  into  considera- 

296 


THIN    ICE 

tion  a  human  life  here  or  there,  a  human  happiness 
more  or  less.  You  see,  I  do  not  even  ask  you  to  agree 
with  me  or  to  approve  of  me." 

"  My  friend,  in  the  course  of  a  long  life  I  have  learn- 
ed only  one  effective  lesson — to  judge  no  man,"  put  in 
Deulin. 

"  Remember,"  continued  the  prince,  "  I  deplore  the 
method.  I  understand  it  was  a  bomb.  I  take  no  part 
in  such  proceedings.  They  are  bad  policy.  You  will 
see — we  shall  both  see,  if  we  live  long  enough — that  this 
is  a  mistake.  It  will  alienate  all  sympathies  from  the 
party.  They  have  not  even  dared  to  approach  me  with 
any  suggestion  of  co-operation.  They  have  approached 
others  of  the  Polish  party  and  have  been  sent  about  their 
business.  But — well,  one  would  be  a  fool  not  to  take 
advantage  of  every  mishap  to  one's  enemy." 

Deulin  held  up  one  hand  in  a  gesture  imploring  si- 
lence. 

"  Thin  ice !"  he  said,  warningly. 

"  Bah !"  laughed  the  other.  "  You  and  your  thin 
ice !  I  am  no  diplomatist — a  man  who  is  afraid  to  look 
over  a  wall." 

"  JSTo.  Only  a  man  who  prefers  to  find  out  what  is 
on  the  other  side  by  less  obvious  means,"  corrected  the 
Frenchman.  "  One  must  not  be  seen  looking  over  one's 
neighbor's  wall — that  is  the  first  commandment  of 
diplomacy." 

"  Then  why  are  you  here  ?"  asked  the  prince,  abrupt- 
ly, with  his  rough  laugh. 

And  Paul  Deulin  suddenly  lost  his  temper.  He  sat 
bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  and  banged  his  two  hands 
down  on  the  arms  of  it  so  that  the  dust  flew  out.  He 
glared  across  at  the  prince  with  a  fierceness  in  his  eyes 
that  had  not  glittered  there  for  twenty  years. 

297 


THE     VULTURES 

"  You  think  I  came  here  to  pry  into  your  affairs — 
to  turn  our  friendship  into  a  means  for  my  own  ag- 
grandizement ?  You  think  that  I  report  to  my  govern- 
ment that  which  you  and  I  may  say  to  each  otlier,  or 
leave  unsaid,  before  your  study  fire  ?  Was  it  not  I  who 
cried  '  Thin  ice  '  ?" 

"  Yes — yes,"  answered  the  prince,  shortly.  And  the 
two  old  friends  glared  at  each  other  gleams  of  the 
fires  that  had  burned  fiercely  enough  in  other  days. 
"  Yes — ^yes !  but  why  are  you  here  this  morning  ?" 

"  Wliy  am  I  here  this  morning  ?  I  will  tell  you.  I 
ask  you  no  questions.  I  want  to  know  nothing  of  your 
schemes  and  plans.  You  can  run  your  neck  into  a  noose 
if  you  like.  You  have  been  doing  it  all  your  life.  And 
— who  knows  ? — you  may  win  at  last.  As  for  Martin, 
you  have  brought  him  up  in  the  same  school.  And,  bon 
Dieu !  I  suppose  you  are  Bukatys,  and  you  cannot  help 
it.  It  is  your  affair,  after  all.  But  you  shall  not  push 
Wanda  into  a  Russian  prison!  You  shall  not  get  her 
to  Siberia,  if  I  can  help  it!" 

"  Wanda  !"  said  the  prince,  in  some  surprise — "  Wan- 
da!" 

"  Yes.  You  forget — you  Bukatys  always  have  for- 
gotten— the  women.  Warsaw  is  no  place  for  Wanda 
to-day.  And  to-day's  work — to-night's  work — is  no 
work  for  Wanda !" 

"  To-night's  w^ork !    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  prince  sat  forward  and  looked  hard  at  his 
friend. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  be  alarmed.  I  know  nothing," 
was  the  answer.  "  But  I  am  not  a  complete  fool.  I 
put  two  and  two  together  at  random.  I  only  guess,  as 
you  know.  I  have  guessed  all  my  life.  And  as  often 
as  not  I  have  guessed  right,  as  you  know.     Ah!  you 

298 


THIN    ICE 

think  I  am  interfering  in  that  which  is  not  my  business, 
and  I  do  not  care  a  snap  of  the  finger  what  you 
think!" 

And  he  illustrated  this  indifference  with  a  gesture 
of  his  finger  and  thumb. 

The  prince  laughed  suddenly  and  boisterously. 

"  If  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  broken  your  heart — 
more  than  once — long  ago,"  he  began.  But  Deulin  in- 
terrupted him. 

"  Only  once,"  he  put  in,  with  a  short,  hard  laugh. 

"  Well,  only  once,  then.  I  should  say  that  you  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Wanda." 

"  Ah !"  said  Deulin,  lightly,  "  that  is  an  old  affair. 
That  happened  when  she  used  to  ride  upon  my  shoul- 
der. And  one  keeps  a  tenderness  for  one's  old  loves, 
you  know." 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  I  tell  you 
honestly  I  have  had  no  time  to  think  of  my  o^vn  affairs. 
I  have  had  no  courage  to  think  of  them,  perhaps.  I 
have  been  at  work  all  night.  Yes,  yes !  I  know !  Thin 
ice !  You  ought  to  know  it  when  you  see  it.  You  have 
been  on  it  all  your  life,  and  through  it — " 

"Only  once,"  repeated  Deulin.  "I  propose  what 
any  other  young  lover  Avould  propose  to  do — ^to  run 
away  with  her  from  Warsaw." 

"  When  ?" 

Deulin  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  In  half  an  hour.  Think  of  the  risks,  Bukaty — a 
young  girl." 

And  he  saw  a  sudden  fierceness  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 
The  point  was  gained. 

"  I  could  take  her  to  Cracow  this  evening.  Your  sis- 
ter there  will  take  her  in." 

"  Yes,  yes  !    But  will  Wanda  go  ?" 

299 


THE     VULTUEES 

"  If  you  tell  her  to  go  she  will.  I  think  that  is  the 
only  power  on  earth  that  can  make  her  do  it." 

The  prince  smiled. 

"  You  seem  to  know  her  failings.  You  are  no  lover, 
my  friend." 

"  That  is  a  question  in  which  we  are  both  beyond 
our  depth.  You  will  do  this  thing  for  me.  I  come  bacl? 
in  half  an  hour." 

"  What  about  the  passport,  and  the  difficulties  of  get- 
ting away  from  Warsaw  to-day  ?"  asked  the  prince. 
"  What  we  know  others  must  know  now." 

"  Leave  those  matters  to  me.  You  can  safelv  do  so. 
Please  do  not  move.  I  will  find  my  way  to  the  door, 
thank  you." 

"  If  you  see  Wanda  as  you  go,"  called  out  the  prince, 
as  Deulin  closed  the  door  behind  him,  "  send  her  to 
me." 

Deulin  did  see  Wanda.  He  had  always  intended  to 
do  so.  He  went  to  the  drawing-room  and  there  found 
her,  busy  over  some  household  books.  He  held  out  be- 
neath her  eyes  the  telegram  he  had  received  that  morn- 
ing. 

"  A  telegram,"  she  said,  looking  at  it.  "  But  I  can- 
not make  out  its  meaning.  I  never  saw  or  heard  of  that 
word  before." 

"  ^Nevertheless  the  news  it  contains  will  stir  the  blood 
of  men  till  the  end  of  time,"  answered  Deulin,  lightly. 
"  It  is  from  a  reliable  source.  Cartoner  sent  it.  Upon 
that  news  your  father  is  basing  that  which  he  wishes  to 
say  to  you  in  his  study  now." 

"  Ah !"  said  Wanda,  with  a  ring  of  anxiety  in  her 
voice. 

"  It  is  nothing !"  put  in  Deulin,  quickly,  at  the  sight 
of  her  face.    "  Nothing  that  need  disturb  your  thoughts 

300 


THIN    ICE 

01  mine.  It  is  only  a  question  of  empires  and  king- 
doms." 

With  bis  light  laugh,  he  turned  away  from  her,  and 
was  gone  before  she  could  ask  him  a  question. 

In  half  an  hour  he  returned.  He  had  a  cab  waiting 
at  the  door,  and  the  passport  difficulty  had  been  over- 
come, he  said. 

"  The  man  in  the  street,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
prince,  sitting  beside  Wanda,  who  stood  before  the 
study  fire  in  her  furs,  ready  to  go — "  the  man  in  the 
street  and  the  innumerable  persons  who  carry  swords 
in  this  city  know  nothing." 

"  They  will  know  at  the  frontier,"  answered  the 
prince,  "  and  it  is  there  that  you  will  have  difficulties." 

"  Then  it  is  there  that  we  shall  overcome  them," 
he  replied,  gayly.  "  It  is  there  also,  I  hope,  that  we 
shall  dine.  For  I  have  had  no  lunch.  ISTo  matter;  I 
lunched  yesterday.  I  shall  eat  things  in  the  train,  and 
Wanda  will  hate  me.  I  always  hate  other  people's 
crumbs,  while  for  my  own  I  have  a  certain  tenderness. 
Yes.    ISTow  let  us  say  good-bye  and  be  gone." 

For  Paul  Deulin's  gayety  always  rose  to  the  emer- 
gency of  the  moment.  He  came  of  a  stock  that  had 
made  jests  on  the  guillotine  steps.  He  was  suddenly 
pressed  for  time,  and  had  scarcely  a  moment  in  which 
to  bid  his  old  friend  good-bye,  and  no  leisure  to  make 
those  farewell  speeches  which  are  nearly  always  better 
left  unsaid. 

"  I  must  ask  you,"  he  said  to  Wanda,  when  they  were 
in  the  cab,  "  to  drive  round  by  the  Europe,  and  keep 
you  waiting  a  few  moments  while  I  run  up-stairs  and 
put  together  my  belongings.  I  shall  give  up  my  room. 
I  may  not  come  back.     One  never  knows." 

And  he  looked  curiously  out  of  the  cab  window  into 

301 


THE    VULTURES 

the  street  that  had  run  with  blood  twice  within  his  own 
recollection.  He  peered  into  the  faces  of  the  passers- 
by  as  into  the  faces  of  men  who  were  to-day,  and  to- 
morrow wonld  be  as  the  seed  of  grass. 

In  the  Cracow  Faubourg  all  seemed  to  be  as  usual. 
Some  were  going  about  their  business  without  haste  or 
enthusiasm,  as  the  conquered  races  always  seem  to  do, 
while  others  appeared  to  have  no  business  at  all  beyond 
a  passing  interest  in  the  shop-windows  and  a  leisurely 
sense  of  enjoyment  in  the  sunshine.  The  quieter 
thoroughfares  were  quieter  than  usual,  Deulin  thought. 
But  he  made  no  comment,  and  Wanda  seemed  to  be 
fully  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts.  The  long- 
expected,  when  it  comes  at  last,  is  really  more  surpris- 
ing than  the  unexpected  itself. 

It  was  the  luncheon  hour  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe, 
but  the  entrance  hall  was  less  encumbered  with  hats 
and  fur  coats  than  was  usual  between  twelve  and  two. 
The  man  in  the  street  might,  as  he  had  said,  know  noth- 
ing; but  others,  and  notably  the  better-born,  knew  now 
that  the  Czar  was  dead. 

As  Deulin  was  preparing  to  open  the  carriage  door, 
Wanda  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  What  will  you  do  about  the  Mangles  ?"  she  asked. 
"  We  cannot  let  them  remain  here  unwarned." 

Deulin  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"  I  had  forgotten  them,"  he  answered.  "  In  times  of 
stress  one  finds  out  one's  friends,  because  the  others  are 
forgotten.    I  will  say  a  word  to  Mangles,  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Wanda,  sitting  back  in  the  cab  so 
that  no  one  should  see  her — "  yes,  do  that." 

"  Odd  people  women  are,"  said  Deulin  to  himself,  as 
he  hurried  up-stairs.  He  must  really  have  been  in 
readiness  to  depart,  for  he  came  down  again  almost  at 

302 


THIN^     ICE 

once,  followed  by  a  green-aproned  porter  carrying  his 
luggage. 

"  I  looked  into  Mangles's  salon,"  he  said  to  Wanda, 
when  he  was  seated  beside  her  again.  "  He  remains 
here  alone.  The  ladies  have  already  gone.  They  must 
have  taken  the  mid-day  train  to  Germany.  He  is  no 
fool — that  Mangles.  But  this  morning  he  is  dumb. 
He  would  say  nothing." 

At  the  station  and  at  the  frontier  there  were,  as  the 
prince  had  predicted,  difficulties,  and  Deulin  overcame 
them  with  the  odd  mixture  of  good-humor  and  high- 
handedness which  formed  his  method  of  ruling  men. 
He  seemed  to  be  in  good  spirits,  and  always  confident. 

"  They  know,"  he  said,  when  Wanda  and  he  were 
safely  seated  in  the  Austrian  railway  carriage.  "  They 
all  know.  Look  at  their  stupid,  perturbed  faces.  We 
have  slipped  across  the  frontier  before  they  have  de- 
cided whether  they  are  standing  on  their  heads  or  their 
heels.  Ah !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have  a  smile  to  show 
the  world !" 

"  Or  a  grin,"  he  added,  after  a  long  pause,  "  that 
passes  for  one." 


XXXIV 

FOR    ANOTHER    TIME 

?HE  tBaw  came  that  afternoon.  Shortly 
before  sunset  the  rain  set  in;  the  per- 
sistent, splashing,  cold  rain  that  drives 
northward  from  the  Carpathians.  In  a 
few  hours  the  roads  would  be  impassable. 
The  dawn  would  see  the  rise  of  the  Vis- 
tula; and  there  are  few  sights  in  nature  more  alarming 
than  the  steady  rise  of  a  huge  river. 

There  is  to  this  day  no  paved  road  across  the  plain 
that  lies  to  the  south  of  Warsaw.  From  the  capital  to 
the  village  of  Wilanow  there  are  three  roads  which  are 
sandy  in  dry  weather,  and  wet  in  spring  and  autumn. 
During  the  rains  the  whole  tracks,  and  not  only  the  ruts, 
are  under  water.  They  are  only  passable  and  worthy 
of  the  name  of  road  in  winter,  when  the  sleighs  have 
pressed  down  a  hard  and  polished  track. 

Along  the  middle  road — which  is  the  worst  and  the 
least  frequented — a  number  of  carts  made  their  way 
soon  after  eight  o'clock  at  night.  The  road  is  not  only 
unmade,  but  is  neglected  and  allowed  to  fall  into  such 
deep  ruts  and  puddles  as  to  make  it  almost  impassable. 
It  is  bordered  on  either  side  by  trees  and  a  deep  ditch. 
In  the  late  summer  it  is  used  for  the  transit  of  the  hay 
which  is  grown  on  the  low-lying  land.  In  winter  it  is 
the  shortest  road  to  Wilanow.  In  spring  and  autumn 
it  is  not  used  at  all. 

30i 


POK     ANOTHEE    TIME 

It  was  raining  hard  now,  and  the  wind  hummed 
drearily  through  the  pollarded  trees.  Each  of  the  four 
carts  was  dragged  by  three  horses,  harnessed  abreast  in 
the  Kussian  fashion.  They  were  the  ordinary  hay- 
carts  of  the  country,  to  be  encountered  at  any  time  on 
the  more  frequented  road  nearer  to  the  hills,  carrying 
produce  to  the  city.  The  carts  were  going  towards  the 
city  now,  but  they  were  empty. 

Fifty  yards  in  front  of  the  caravan  a  man  splashed 
along  through  the  standing  water,  his  head  bent  to  the 
rain.  It  was  Kosmaroff.  He  was  in  his  working 
clothes,  and  the  rain  had  glued  his  garments  to  his  spare 
limbs.  He  walked  with  long  strides,  heedless  of  where 
he  set  his  feet.  He  had  reached  that  stage  of  wetness 
where  whole  water  could  scarcely  have  made  him  wet- 
ter. Or  else  he  had  such  business  in  hand  that  mere 
outward  things  were  of  no  account.  Every  now  and 
then  he  turned  his  head,  half  impatiently,  to  make  sure 
that  the  carts  were  following  him.  The  wheels  made 
no  sound  on  the  wet  sand,  but  the  heavy  wood-work  of 
the  carts  groaned  and  creaked  as  they  rolled  clumsily  in 
the  deep  ruts. 

At  the  cross-ways,  where  the  shorter  runs  at  right 
angles  into  the  larger  Wilanow  road,  KosmarofF  found 
a  man  waiting  for  him,  on  horseback,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  which  are  larger  here.  The  horseman  was 
riding  slowly  towards  him  from  the  town,  and  led  a 
spare  horse.  He  was  in  a  rough  peasant's  overcoat  of 
a  dirty  white  cloth,  drawn  in  at  the  waist,  and  split 
from  heel  to  band,  for  use  in  the  saddle.  They  wear 
such  coats  still  in  Poland  and  Galicia. 

Kosmaroff  gave  a  little  cough.  There  is  nothing  so 
unmistakable  as  a  man's  trick  of  coughing.  The  horse- 
mf'n  pulled  up  at  once. 

5»  305 


THE     VULTUKES 

"  Yon  are  pTinctual,"  he  said.  "  I  was  nearly  asleep 
in  the  saddle." 

And  the  voice  Avas  that  of  Prince  Martin  Bnkaty. 
lie  had  another  coat  such  as  he  was  wearing  thrown 
across  the  saddle  in  front  of  him,  and  he  leaned  forward 
to  hand  it  down  to  Kosmaroff. 

"  You  are  not  cold  ?"  he  asked. 

"  'No ;  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  be  cold  again." 

"  That  is  good.  Put  on  your  coat  quickly.  You 
must  not  catch  a  chill.  You  must  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

"  So  must  you,"  answered  Kosmaroff,  with  a  little 
laugh. 

Though  one  was  dark  and  the  other  fair,  there  was 
a  subtle  resemblance  between  these  two  men  which  lay, 
perhaps,  more  in  gesture  and  limb  than  in  face.  There 
also  existed  between  them  a  certain  sympathy  which 
the  French  call  camaraderie,  which  was  not  the  out- 
come of  a  long  friendship.  Far  back  in  the  days  of 
Poland's  greatness  they  must  have  had  a  common  an- 
cestor. In  the  age  of  chivalry  some  dark,  spare 
knight,  with  royal  blood  in  his  veins,  had  perhaps 
fallen  in  love  with  one  of  the  fair  Bukatys,  whose 
women  had  alwavs  been  beautiful,  and  their  men  al- 
ways  reckless. 

Kosmaroff  climbed  into  the  saddle,  and  they  stood 
side  by  side,  waiting  for  the  carts  to  come  up.  Martin's 
horse  began  to  whinny  at  the  sound  of  approaching 
hoofs,  when  its  rider  leaned  forward  in  the  saddle  and 
struck  it  fiercely  on  the  side  of  its  great  Koman  nose, 
which  sounded  hollow,  like  a  drum. 

"  I  suppose  you  had  little  sleep  last  night,"  said  Kos- 
maroff when  Martin  yawned,  with  his  face  turned  up 
to  the  black  sky. 

306 


FOE    ANOTHER    TIME 

"  I  had  none." 

"  ISTor  I,"  said  Kosmaroff.  "  We  may  get  some — to- 
morrow." 

The  carts  now  came  up.  Each  team  had  two  drivers, 
one  walking  on  either  side. 

"  You  know  what  to  do,"  said  Martin  to  these  in 
turn.  "  Come  to  the  iron-foundrj,  where  you  will  find 
us  waiting  for  you.  When  3^ou  are  laden  you  are  to  go 
straight  back  as  quickly  as  you  can  by  this  same  road 
to  the  military  earthworks,  where  you  will  find  our 
friends  drawn  up  in  line.  You  are  to  turn  to  the  left, 
down  the  road  running  towards  the  river  on  this  side 
of  the  fortifications,  and  pass  slowly  down  the  line, 
dropping  your  load  as  directed  by  those  who  will  meet 
you  there.  If  you  are  stopped  on  the  road  by  the  police 
or  a  patrol,  who  insist  on  asking  what  you  have  in  your 
carts,  you  must  be  civil  to  them,  and  show  them ;  and 
while  they  are  looking  into  your  carts  you  must  kill 
them  quietly  with  the  knife." 

The  drivers  seemed  to  have  heard  these  instructions 
before,  for  they  merely  nodded,  and  made  no  comment. 
One  of  them  gave  a  low  laugh,  and  that  was  all.  He 
appeared  to  be  an  old  man  with  a  white  beard,  and  had 
perhaps  waited  a  long  time  for  this  moment.  There  was 
a  wealth  of  promise  in  his  curt  hilarity. 

Then  Martin  and  Kosmaroff  turned  and  rode  on 
towards  Warsaw  at  a  trot.  Before  long  they  wheeled  to 
the  right,  quitting  the  highway  and  taking  to  the  quieter 
Czerniakowska,  that  wide  and  deserted  road  which  runs 
by  the  river-side,  skirting  the  high  land  now  converted 
into  a  public  pleasure-ground,  under  the  name  of  the 
Lazienki  Park. 

In  the  daytime  the  Czerniakowska  is  only  used  by 
the  sand-carts  and  the  workmen  going  to  and  from  the 

307 


THE    yULTURES 

manufactories.  To-night,  in  the  pouring  rain,  no  one 
passed  that  way. 

Before  the  iron-foundry  is  reached  the  road  narrows 
somewhat,  and  is  bounded  on  either  side  by  a  high  stone 
walL  On  the  left  are  the  lower  lands  of  the  Lazienki 
Park;  the  yards  and  storehouses  of  the  iron-foundry 
are  on  the  right. 

At  the  point  where  the  road  narrows  Kosmaroff  sud- 
denly reined  in  his  horse,  and  leaning  forward,  peered 
into  the  darkness.  There  are  no  lamps  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  Czerniakowska. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Martin. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  a  glint  under  that  wall,"  answered 
Kosmaroif.  "  There — there  it  is  again.  Steel.  There 
is  some  one  there.  It  is  the  gleam  of  those  distant 
lights  on  a  bayonet." 

"  Then  let  us  go  forward,"  said  Martin,  "  and  see 
who  it  is." 

And  he  urged  his  horse,  which  seemed  tired,  and  car- 
ried its  head  low  beneath  the  rain.  They  had  not  gone 
ten  paces  when  a  rough  voice  called  out : 

"  Who  goes  there  ?" 

"  Who  goes  there  ?"  echoed  Martin.  "  Eut  this  is  a 
high-road."  And  he  moved  nearer  to  the  wall.  The 
man  stepped  from  the  shadow,  and  his  bayonet  gleamed 
again. 

"  1^0  matter,"  he  said ;  "  you  cannot  pass  this  way." 

"  But,  my  friend — "  began  Martin,  with  a  protesting 
laugh.  But  he  never  finished  the  sentence,  for  Kos- 
maroff  had  slipped  out  of  the  saddle  on  the  far  side, 
and  interrupted  him  by  pushing  the  bridle  into  his 
hand.  Then  the  ex-Cossack  ran  round  at  the  back  of 
the  horses. 

The  soldier  gave  a  sharp  exclamation  of  surprise,  and 

308 


EOR    ANOTHEK    TIME 

the  next  moment  his  rifle  rattled  down  against  the  wall. 
Both  men  were  on  the  ground  now  in  the  water  and  the 
mud.  There  came  to  Martin's  ears  the  sound  of  hard 
breathing,  and  some  muttered  words  of  anger;  then  a 
sharp  cough,  which  was  not  Kosmaroif's  cough. 

After  an  instant  of  dead  silence,  Kosmaroff  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"  First  blood,"  he  said,  breathlessly.  He  went  to  his 
horse  and  wiped  his  hands  upon  its  mane. 

"  Bah !"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  he  smelled  of  bad  cigar- 
ettes !" 

Martin  was  leaning  in  the  saddle,  looking  down  at 
the  dark  form  in  the  mud. 

"  Oh,  he  is  dead  enough,"  said  Kosmaroff.  "  I  broke 
his  neck.    Did  you  not  hear  it  go  ?" 

"  Yes — I  heard  it.    But  what  was  he  doing  here  ?" 

"  That  is  yet  to  be  found  out,"  was  the  reply,  in  a 
sharp,  strained  voice.     "  This  is  Cartoner's  work." 

"  I  doubt  it,"  whispered  Martin.  And  yet  in  his 
heart  he  could  scarcely  doubt  it  at  that  moment.  Noth- 
ing was  further  from  his  recollection  than  the  note  he 
had  given  to  jSTetty  in  the  Saski  Gardens  ten  hours  ago. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  de- 
spair in  his  voice.  He  had  always  been  lucky  and  suc- 
cessful. 

"  It  means,"  answered  the  man  who  had  never  been 
either,  "  that  the  place  is  surrounded,  of  course.  They 
have  got  the  arms,  and  we  have  failed — this  time.  Take 
the  horses  back  towards  the  barracks — and  wait  for  me 
where  the  water  is  across  the  road.  I  will  go  forward 
on  foot  and  make  sure.  If  I  do  not  return  in  twenty 
minutes  it  will  mean  that  they  have  taken  me." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  off  his  white  overcoat,  which  was 
all  gray  and  bespattered  with  mud,  and  threw  it  across 

309 


THE     VULTUEES 

the  saddle.  His  working  clothes  were  sombre  and  dirty. 
He  was  almost  invisible  in  the  darkness. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  I  will  get  over  the 
wall  here.    Bring  your  horse  against  the  wall." 

Martin  did  so,  avoiding  the  body  of  the  sentry,  which 
lay  stretched  across  the  foot-path.  The  wall  was  eigh- 
teen feet  high. 

"  Stand  in  your  stirrups,"  said  Kosmaroff,  "  and 
hold  one  arm  up  rigid  against  the  wall." 

He  was  already  standing  on  the  broad  back  of  the 
charger,  steadying  himself  by  a  firm  grip  of  Martin's 
collar.  He  climbed  higher,  standing  on  Martin's  shoul- 
ders, and  steadying  himself  against  the  wall. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?    I  am  going  to  spring." 

He  placed  the  middle  of  his  foot  in  Martin's  up- 
stretched  palm,  gave  a  light  spring  and  a  scramble,  and 
reached  the  summit  of  the  wall.  Martin  could  perceive 
him  for  a  moment  against  the  sky. 

"  All  right,"  he  whispered,  and  disappeared. 

Martin  had  not  returned  many  yards  along  the  road 
they  had  come  when  he  heard  pattering  steps  in  the  mud 
behind  him.    It  was  Kosmaroff,  breathless. 

"  Quick  !"  he  whispered.     "  Quick !" 

And  he  scrambled  into  the  saddle  while  the  horse 
was  still  moving.  He  was,  it  must  be  remembered,  a 
trained  soldier.  He  led  the  way  at  a  gallop,  stooping 
in  the  saddle  to  secure  the  swinging  stirrups.  Martin 
had  to  use  his  spurs  to  bring  his  horse  alongside.  Shoul- 
der to  shoulder  they  splashed  on  in  the  darkness. 

"  I  went  right  in,"  gasped  Kosmaroff.  "  The  arms 
are  gone.  The  place  is  full  of  men.  There  is  a  sotnia 
drawn  up  in  the  yard  itself.  It  is  an  ambuscade.  We 
have  failed — failed — this  time !" 

"  We  must  stop  the  carts,  and  then  ride  on  and  dis- 

310 


FOE    ANOTHEE    TIME 

perse  the  men,"  said  Martin.  "  We  may  do  it.  We 
may  succeed.     It  is  a  good  night  for  such  work." 

Kosmaroff  gave  a  short,  despairing  laugh. 

"  Ah !"  he  said.    "  You  are  full  of  hope — you." 

"  Yes — I  am  full  of  hope — still,"  answered  Martin. 
He  had  more  to  lose  than  his  companion.  But  he  had 
also  less  to  gain. 

They  rode  hard  until  they  met  the  carts,  and  turned 
them  back.  So  far  as  these  were  concerned,  there  was 
little  danger  in  going  away  empty  from  the  city. 

Then  the  two  horsemen  rode  on  in  silence.  They  were 
far  out  in  the  marsh-lands  before  Kosmaroff  spoke. 

"  I  am  sure,"  he  then  said,  "  that  I  was  seen  as  I 
climbed  back  over  the  wall.  I  heard  a  stir  among  the 
rifles.  But  they  could  not  recognize  me.  It  is  just 
possible  that  I  may  not  be  suspected.  Eor  you  it  is 
different.  If  they  knew  where  the  arms  were  stored, 
they  must  also  know  who  procured  them.  You  will 
never  be  able  to  show  yourself  in  Warsaw  again." 

"  I  may  be  able  to  make  myself  more  dangerous  else- 
where," said  Martin,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  went  on  Kosmaroff,  "  if  they  will 
have  arrested  your  father  and  sister;  but  I  am  quite 
sure  that  they  will  be  in  the  palace  now  awaiting  your 
return  there.     We  must  get  away  to-night." 

"  Oh,"  answered  Martin,  gayly,  "  it  does  not  mat- 
ter much  about  that.  What  I  am  thinking  of  are  these 
four  thousand  men  waiting  out  here  in  the  rain.  How 
are  we  to  get  them  to  their  homes  in  Warsaw  ?" 

And  Kosmaroff  had  no  answer  to  this  question. 

Beneath  the  trees  on  the  low,  wet  land  inside  the 
fortifications  they  found  their  men  drawn  up  in  a 
double  line.  There  were  evidences  of  military  organ- 
ization and  training  in  their  bearing  and  formation.    If 

311 


THE    yULTUEES 

the  arms  had  been  forthcoming,  these  would  have  been 
dangerous  soldiers;  for  they  were  desperate  men,  and 
had  each  in  his  heart  a  grievance  to  be  wiped  out.  They 
were  only  the  nucleus  of  a  great  rising,  organized  care- 
fully and  systematically  —  the  brand  to  be  thrown 
amid  the  straw.  They  were  to  surprise  and  hold  the 
two  strongholds  in  Warsaw,  while  the  whole  country 
was  set  in  a  blaze,  while  the  foreign  powers  and  the 
j)arties  to  the  treaty  which  Russia  had  systematically 
broken  were  appealed  to  and  urged  to  assist.  It  was  a 
wild  scheme,  but  not  half  so  wild  as  many  that  have 
succeeded. 

The  four  thousand  heroically  waiting  the  word  that 
was  to  send  them  on  their  forlorn  hope  heard  the  news 
in  silence,  and  all  silently  moved  away. 

"  It  is  for  another  time — it  is  for  another  time !" 
said  Kosmaroff  and  Martin  repeatedly  and  confidently, 
as  the  men  moved  past  them  in  the  darkness. 

In  Warsaw  there  was  a  queer  silence,  and  every  door 
was  shut.  The  streets  had  been  quite  deserted,  and  they 
were  now  full  of  soldiers,  who,  at  a  given  word,  had 
moved  out  from  the  barracks  to  line  the  streets. 

At  midnight  they  were  still  at  their  posts,  when  the 
first  stragglers  came  in  from  the  south,  silent,  mud- 
bespattered,  bedraggled  men,  who  shuffled  along  in  their 
dripping  clothes  in  the  middle  of  the  street  in  groups 
of  two  and  three.  They  hung  their  heads  and  crept  to 
their  homes.  And  the  conquerors  watched  them  with- 
out sympathy,  without  anger. 

It  was  a  miserable  fiasco. 


XXXV 

ACEOSS   THE   FRONTIER 

JHOSE  who  listened  at  their  open  win- 
dows that  night  for  the  sound  of  firing 
heard  it  not.  They  heard,  perhaps,  the 
tread  of  slipshod  feet  hurrying  home- 
ward. They  could  scarcely  fail  to  hear 
the  Vistula  grinding  and  grumbling  in 
its  new-found  strength.  For  the  ice  was  moving  and 
the  water  rising.  The  long  sleep  of  winter  was  over, 
and  down  the  great  length  of  the  river  that  touches 
three  empires  men  must  needs  be  on  the  alert  night  and 
day. 

Between  the  piers  of  the  bridge  the  ice  had  become 
blocked,  and  the  large,  flat  floes  sweeping  down  on  the 
current  were  pushing,  hustling,  and  climbing  on  each 
other  with  grunts  and  squeaks  as  if  they  had  been  en- 
dowed with  some  low  form  of  animal  life.  The  rain 
did  not  cease  at  midnight,  but  the  clouds  lifted  a  little, 
and  the  night  was  less  dark.  The  moon  above  the  clouds 
was  almost  full. 

"  There  is  only  one  chance  of  escape,"  Kosmaroff 
had  said — "  the  river.  Meet  me  on  the  steps  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Bednarska  at  half-past  twelve.  I  will  get  a 
boat.    Have  you  money  ?" 

"  I  have  a  few  roubles — I  never  had  many,"  answered 
Martin. 

.313 


THE    VULTUEES 

"  Get  more  if  you  can — get  some  food  if  you  can — 
a  bottle  of  vodka  may  make  the  difference  between  life 
and  death.    Keep  your  coat." 

And  they  parted  hurriedly  on  the  hill  where  the  road 
rises  towards  the  Mokotow.  Kosmaroff  turned  to  the 
right  and  went  to  the  river,  where  he  earned  his  daily 
bread,  where  his  friends  eked  out  their  toilsome  lives. 
Martin  joined  the  silent,  detached  groups  hurrying 
towards  the  city.  He  passed  down  the  whole  length  of 
the  Marszalkowska  with  the  others  slouching  along  the 
middle  of  the  street  beneath  the  gaze  of  the  soldiers, 
brushing  past  the  horses  of  the  Cossacks  stationed  at 
the  street  corners.  And  he  was  allowed  to  pass,  un- 
recognized. 

A  group  of  officers  stood  in  the  wide  road  opposite  to 
the  railway  station,  muffled  in  their  large  cloaks.  They 
were  talking  together  in  a  low  voice.  One  of  them  gave 
a  laugh  as  Martin  passed.  He  recognized  the  voice  as 
that  of  a  friend  —  a  young  Cossack  officer  who  had 
lunched  with  him  two  days  earlier. 

Soon  after  midnight  he  made  his  way  down  the  steep 
Bednarska.  He  had  found  out  that  the  Bukaty  Palace 
was  surrounded ;  had  seen  the  light  filtering  through 
the  dripping  panes  of  the  conservatory.  His  father  was 
probably  sitting  in  the  gi'eat  drawing-room  alone,  be- 
fore the  wood-fire,  meditating  over  the  failure  which  he 
must  have  realized  by  now  from  a  note  hurriedly  sent 
by  one  of  the  few  servants  whom  they  could  trust.  Mar- 
tin knew  that  Wanda  had  gone.  He  also  knew  the 
address  that  would  find  her.  This  was  one  of  a  hun- 
dred details  to  which  the  prince  himself  had  attended. 
He  had  been  a  skilled  organizer  in  the  days  when  he  had 
poured  arms  and  ammunition  into  Poland  across  the 
Austrian  frontier,  and  his  hand  had  not  lost  its  cun- 

314: 


ACROSS     THE     FRONTIER 

ning.  All  Poland  was  seamed  by  channels  through 
which  information  could  he  poured  at  any  moment  day 
or  night,  just  as  water  is  distributed  over  the  land  of 
an  irrigated  farm. 

Martin  had  procured  money.  He  carried  some  large 
round  loaves  of  gray  bread  under  his  arm.  The  neck 
of  a  bottle  protruded  from  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 
A  mono;  the  lower  streets  near  the  river  these  burdens 
were  more  likely  to  allay  than  to  arouse  suspicion. 

Between  the  Bednarska  and  the  bridge  which  towers 
above  the  low-roofed  houses  fifty  yards  farther  down 
the  river  are  the  landing-stages  for  the  steamers  that 
ply  in  summer.  There  is  a  public  bath,  and  at  one  end 
of  this  floating  erection  a  landing-stage  for  smaller 
boats,  where  as  often  as  not  Kosmaroff  found  work. 
It  was  to  this  landing-stage  that  Martin  directed  his 
steps.  In  summer  there  were  usually  workers  and 
watchers  here  night  and  day;  for  the  traffic  of  a  great 
river  never  ceases,  and  those  whose  daily  bread  is 
wrested  from  wind,  water,  and  tide  must  get  their  sleep 
when  they  can. 

To-night  there  were  a  few  men  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  street  where  the  steps  are — river-workers  who  had 
property  afloat  and  imprisoned  by  the  ice,  dwellers, 
perhaps,  in  those  cheap  houses  beneath  the  bridge  which 
are  now  gradually  falling  under  the  builder's  ham- 
mer, who  took  a  sleepless  interest  in  the  prospects  of  a 
flood. 

Martin  went  out  onto  the  landing-stage,  and  looked 
about  him  as  if  he  also  had  a  stake  in  this,  one  of 
nature's  great  lotteries.  There  he  had  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing, such  as  any  man  might  have  on  such  a  night,  and 
at  the  most  deadly  time  of  the  year.  He  waited  ten 
minutes,  perhaps,  coughing  at  intervals,  and  at  length 

315 


THE    VULTURES 

Kosmaroff  came  to  him,  not  from  tlie  land,  but  across 
the  moving  floes  from  the  direction  of  the  bridge. 

"  The  water  is  running  freely,"  he  said,  "  through 
the  middle  arch.  I  have  a  boat  out  there  on  the  ice. 
Come!" 

And  he  took  the  bread  from  Martin's  arms,  and  led 
the  way  on  to  the  river  that  he  knew  so  well  in  all  its 
varying  moods.  The  boat  was  lying  on  the  ice  a  few 
yards  above  the  massive  pier  of  the  bridge,  almost  at 
the  edge  of  the  water,  which  could  be  heard  gurgling 
and  lapping  as  it  flowed  towards  the  sea  with  its  burden 
of  snow  and  ice.  It  was  so  dark  that  Martin,  stumbling 
over  the  chaos  of  ice,  fell  against  the  boat  before  he 
saw  it.  It  was  one  of  the  rough  punts  of  a  primeval 
simplicity  of  build  used  by  the  sand-workers  of  the 
Vistula. 

Kosmaroff  gave  his  orders  shortly  and  sharply.  He 
was  at  home  on  the  unstable  surface,  which  was  half 
water,  half  ice.  He  was  commander  now,  and  spoke 
without  haste  or  hesitation. 

"  Help  me,"  he  said,  "  to  carry  her  to  the  edge,  but 
do  not  stand  upright.  We  can  easily  get  away  unseen, 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  no  one  will  come  out  on  the 
ice  to  look  for  us.  We  must  be  twenty  miles  away  be- 
fore dawn." 

The  boat  was  a  heavy  one,  and  they  stumbled  and 
fell  several  times;  for  there  was  no  foothold,  and  both 
were  lightly  made  men.  At  last  they  reached  the  run- 
ning water  and  cautiously  launched  into  it. 

"  We  must  lie  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,"  said 
Kosmaroff,  "  and  take  our  chances  of  being  crushed 
until  we  are  past  the  citadel." 

As  he  spoke  they  shot  under  the  bridge.  Above  them, 
to  the  left;  towered  the  terrace  of  the  castle,  and  the 

316 


ACKOSS     THE    FRONTIEK 

square  face  of  that  great  building  which  has  seen  so 
many  vicissitudes.  Every  window  was  alight.  Eor  the 
castle  is  used  as  a  barracks  now,  and  the  soldiers,  having 
been  partially  withdrawn  from  the  streets,  were  going 
to  bed.  Soon  these  lights  were  left  behind,  and  the  out- 
line of  the  citadel,  half  buried  in  trees,  could  be  dimly 
seen.  Then  suddenly  they  left  the  city  behind,  and 
were  borne  on  the  breast  of  the  river  into  the  outer 
darkness  beyond. 

Kosmaroff  sat  up. 

"  Give  me  a  piece  of  bread,"  he  said.  "  I  am  fam- 
ished." 

But  he  received  no  answer.  Prince  Martin  was 
asleep. 

The  sky  was  beginning  to  clear.  The  storm  was  over, 
but  the  flood  had  yet  to  come.  The  rain  must  have 
fallen  in  the  Carpathians,  and  the  Vistula  came  from 
those  mountains.  In  twenty-four  hours  there  would 
be  not  only  ice  to  fear,  but  uprooted  trees  and  sawn 
timber  from  the  mills ;  here  and  there  a  mill-wheel  torn 
from  its  bearings,  now  and  then  a  dead  horse;  a  door, 
perhaps,  of  a  cottage,  or  part  of  a  roof;  a  few  boats;  a 
hundred  trophies  of  the  triumph  of  nature  over  man, 
borne  to  the  distant  sea  on  muddy  waters. 

Kosmaroff  found  the  bread  and  tore  a  piece  off. 
Then  he  made  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could  in 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  using  one  oar  as  a  rudder.  But 
he  could  not  see  much.  He  could  only  keep  the  boat 
heading  down  stream  and  avoid  the  larger  floes.  Then 
— ^wet,  tired  out,  conscious  of  failure,  sick  at  heart — he 
fell  asleep,  too,  in  the  hands  of  God. 

When  he  awoke  he  found  Martin  crouching  beside 
him,  wide  awake.  The  prince  had  taken  the  oar  and 
was  steering.     The  clouds  had  all  cleared  away,  and  a 

317 


THE    VULTUEES 

full  moon  was  high  ahove  them.  The  dawn  was  in  the 
sky  above  the  level  land.  They  were  passing  through 
a  plain  now,  broken  here  and  there  by  pollarded  trees, 
great  spaces  of  marsh-land,  with  big,  low-roofed  farms 
standing  back  on  the  slightly  rising  ground.  It  was  al- 
most morning. 

Kosmaroff  sat  up,  and  immediately  began  to  shiver. 
Martin  was  shivering  too,  and  handed  him  the  vodka^ 
bottle  with  a  laugh.  His  spirits  were  proof  even  against 
failure  and  a  hopeless  dawn  and  bitter  cold. 

"  Where  are  we  ?"  he  asked. 

Kosmaroff  stood  up  and  looked  round.  They  were 
travelling  at  a  great  pace  in  the  company  of  countless 
ice-floes,  some  white  with  snow,  others  gray  and  muddy. ' 

"  I  know  where  we  are,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause. 
"  We  have  passed  Wyszogrod.  We  are  nearing  Plock. 
We  have  come  a  great  distance.  I  wish  my  teeth 
wouldn't  chatter." 

"  I  have  secured  mine  with  a  piece  of  bread,"  mum- 
bled Martin. 

Kosmaroff  was  looking  uneasily  at  the  sky. 

"  We  cannot  travel  during  the  day,"  he  said,  after 
a  long  examination  of  the  little  clouds  hanging  like 
lines  across  the  eastern  sky.  "  We  shall  not  be  able 
to  cross  the  frontier  at  Thorn  with  this  full  moon,  and 
I  am  afraid  we  are  going  to  have  fine  weather.  We  shall 
soon  come  to  some  large  islands  on  this  side  of  Plock. 
I  know  a  farmer  there.  We  must  wait  with  him  until 
we  have  promise  of  a  suitable  night  to  pass  through 
Thorn." 

Before  daylight  they  reached  the  islands.  There 
was  no  pack  now;  the  ice  was  afloat  and  moving  on- 
ward. All  Kosmaroff 's  skill,  all  the  little  strength 
of  both  was  required  to  work  the  boat  through  the  floes 

318 


ACKOSS     THE    FKONTIEK 

towards  the  land.  The  farmer  took  them  in  willingly 
enough,  and  boasted  that  they  could  not  have  found  a 
safer  hiding-place  in  all  Poland,  which,  indeed,  seemed 
true  enough.  For  none  but  expert  and  reckless  boat- 
men would  attempt  to  cross  the  river  now. 

ISTevertheless,  Kosmaroff  made  the  passage  to  the 
mainland  before  mid-day,  and  set  off  on  foot  to  Plock. 
He  was  going  to  communicate  with  the  prince  at  War- 
saw, and  ask  him  to  provide  money  or  means  of  escape 
to  await  them  at  Dantzic.  In  two  days  a  reply  came, 
telling  them  that  their  escape  Avas  being  arranged,  but 
they  must  await  further  instructions  before  quitting 
their  hiding-place.  After  the  lapse  of  four  days  these 
further  orders  came  by  the  same  sure  channel,  which 
was  independent  of  the  Russian  post-offices. 

The  fugitives  were  to  proceed  cautiously  to  Dantzic, 
to  pass  through  that  town  at  night  to  the  anchorage 
below  l^eufahrwasser.  Here  they  would  find  Cap- 
tain Cable,  in  the  Minnie^  anchored  in  the  stream 
ready  for  sea.  The  instructions  were  necessarily  short. 
There  were  no  explanations  whatever.  There  was  no 
news. 

At  Plock,  Kosmaroff  could  learn  nothing,  for  nothing 
was  known  there.  The  story  of  the  great  plot  had  been 
hushed  up  by  the  authorities.  There  are  persons  living 
in  Warsaw  who  do  not  know  of  it  to  this  day.  There 
are  others  who  know  of  it  and  deny  that  it  ever  existed. 
The  arms  are  in  use  in  Central  Asia  at  the  present  time, 
though  their  pattern  is  already  considered  antiquated. 
Any  one  who  may  choose  to  walk  along  the  Czernia- 
kowska  will  find  to-day  on  the  left-hand  side  of  it  a 
large  building,  once  an  iron-foundry,  now  deserted  and 
falling  into  disrepair.  If  it  be  evening-time,  he  will, 
as  likely  as  not,  meet  the  patrol  from  the  neighboring 

319 


THE     VULTUEES 

hussar  barracks,  which  nightly  guards  this  road  and  the 
river-side. 

After  receiving  their  final  instructions,  Kosmaroff 
and  Martin  had  to  wait  two  days  until  the  weather 
changed — until  the  moon,  now  well  on  the  wane,  did 
not  rise  before  midnight. 

At  last  they  set  out,  in  full  daylight,  on  a  high  river 
still  encumbered  by  ice.  It  was  much  warmer  during 
the  day  now;  but  the  evenings  were  cold,  and  a  thick 
mist  usually  arose  from  the  marsh-lands.  This  soon  en- 
veloped them,  and  they  swept  on  unseen.  None  could 
have  followed  them  into  the  mist,  for  none  had  Kos- 
maroif's  knowledge  of  the  river. 

The  frontier-line  is  some  miles  above  the  ancient  city 
of  Thorn.  It  is  strictly  guarded  by  day  and  night.  The 
patrol-boats  are  afloat  at  every  hour.  Kosmaroff  had 
arranged  to  arrive  at  this  spot  early  in  the  night,  be- 
fore the  mists  had  been  dispelled  by  the  coming  of  the 
moon. 

Even  he  could  only  guess  at  their  position.  Once 
they  dared  to  approach  the  shore  in  order  to  discover 
some  landmark.  But  they  navigated  chiefly  by  sound. 
The  whistle  of  a  distant  train,  the  sound  of  church 
clocks,  the  street  cries  of  a  town — these  were  Kosma- 
roff's  degrees  of  latitude. 

"  We  are  getting  near,"  he  said,  in  little  more  than 
a  whisper.    "  What  is  the  time  ?" 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock.  If  they  got  past  the 
frontier  they  would  sweep  through  Thorn  before  mid- 
night. The  river  narrows  here,  and  goes  at  a  great 
pace.  It  is  still  of  a  vast  width — one  of  the  largest 
rivers  in  Europe. 

The  mist  was  very  thick  here. 

"  Listen  I"    whispered    Kosmaroff,    suddenly.      And 

330 


ACROSS     THE     FEONTIER 

they  heard  the  low,  regular  thud  of  oars.  It  was  the 
patrol-boat. 

Almost  immediately  a  voice,  startlingly  near,  called 
upon  them  to  halt.  They  crouched  low  in  the  boat.  In 
a  mist  it  is  very  difficult  to  locate  sound.  They  looked 
round  in  all  directions.  The  voice  seemed  to  have  come 
from  above.  It  was  raised  again,  and  seemed  to  be 
behind  them  this  time. 

"  Stop,  or  we  fire !"  it  said,  in  Russian.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  sharp  whistle,  which  was  answered  by  two 
or  three  others.  There  were  at  least  three  boats 
close  at  hand,  seeking  to  locate  each  other  before  they 
fired. 

Immediately  afterwards  the  firing  began,  and  was 
taken  up  by  the  more  distant  boats.  A  bullet  splashed 
in  the  water  close  behind  Kosmaroff's  oar,  with  a  sharp 
spit  like  that  of  an  angry  cat.  Martin  gave  a  suppressed 
laugh.     Kosmaroff  only  smiled. 

Then  two  bullets  struck  the  boat  simultaneously,  one 
on  the  stern-post,  fired  from  behind,  the  other  full  on 
the  side  amidships,  where  Martin  lay  concealed. 

ISTeither  of  the  men  moved  or  made  a  sound.  Kos- 
maroff leaned  forward  and  peered  into  the  fog.  The 
patrol-boats  were  behind  now,  and  the  officers  were  call- 
ing to  each  other, 

"  What  was  it — a  boat  or  a  floating  tree  ?"  they  heard 
them  ask  each  other. 

Kosmaroff  was  staring  ahead,  but  he  saw  Martin 
make  a  quick  movement  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  whispered. 

"  A  bullet,"  answered  Martin.    "  It  came  through  the 

side  of  the  boat,  low  down.    It  struck  me  in  the  back — 

the  spine.     I  find  I  cannot  move  my  legs.     But  I  have 

stopped  the  water  from  coming  in,     I  have  my  finger 

»  321 


THE    VULTURES 

in  the  hole  the  bullet  made  below  the  water-line.  T  can 
hold  on  till  we  have  passed  through  Thorn." 

He  spoke  in  his  natural  voice,  quite  cheerfully.  They 
were  not  out  of  danger  yet.  Kosmaroff  could  not  quit 
the  steering-oar.  He  glanced  at  Martin,  and  then  looked 
ahead  again  uneasily. 

Martin  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow,  and  with  a  jerk  of  the  wrist  threw  something 
towards  Kosmaroff.  It  was  an  envelope,  closed  and 
doubled  over. 

"  Put  that  in  your  pocket,"  he  said.  And  Kosmaroff 
obeyed. 

"  You  know  Miss  Cahere,  who  was  at  the  Europe  ?" 
asked  Martin,  suddenly,  after  a  pause. 

Kosmaroff  smiled  the  queer  smile  that  twisted  his 
face  all  to  one  side. 

"  Yes,  I  know  her." 

"  Give  her  that,  or  get  it  to  her,"  said  Martin. 

"  But—" 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin,  answering  the  unasked  question, 
"  I  am  badly  hit,  unless  you  can  do  something  for  me 
after  we  are  past  Thorn." 

And  his  voice  was  still  cheerful. 


XXXVI 

CAPTAIN    CABLE    SOILS    HIS    HANDS 

;AETO]S[ER  was  preparing  to  leave  St. 
Petersburg  when  he  received  a  letter 
from  Deulin.  The  Frenchman  wrote  from 
Cracow,  and  mentioned  in  a  rather  ram- 
bling letter  that  Wanda  was  staying  with 
a  relative  in  that  ancient  city.  He  also 
thought  it  probable  that  she  would  make  a  stay  in  Eng- 
land pending  the  settlement  of  certain  family  affairs. 

"  I  suppose,"  wrote  Deulin,  "  that  you  will  soon  be 
on  your  way  home.  I  think  it  likely  we  shall  both  be 
sent  to  Madrid  before  long.  At  all  events,  I  hope  we 
may  meet  somewhere.  If  you  are  passing  through 
Dantzic  on  your  homeward  journey,  you  will  find  your 
.old  friend  Cable  there." 

This  last  sentence  was  partly  disfigured  by  a  peculiar- 
shaped  blot.  The  writer  had  evidently  dropped  his  pen, 
all  laden  with  ink,  upon  the  letter  as  he  wrote  it.  And 
Cartoner  knew  that  this  was  the  kernel,  as  it  were,  of 
this  chatty  epistle.  He  was  bidden  to  make  it  con- 
venient to  go  to  Dantzic  and  to  see  Captain  Cable  there. 
He  arrived  in  Dantzic  early  in  the  morning,  and  did 
not  go  to  a  hotel.  He  left  his  luggage  at  the  station 
and  walked  down  to  the  Lange  Brucke,  where  the  river 
steamers  start  for  l^eufahrwasser. 

The  boats  ran  every  hour,  and  Cartoner  had  not  long 

323 


THE    VULTUKES 

to  wait.  He  was  not  pressed  for  time,  however,  on  his 
homeward  journey,  as  he  was  more  or  less  his  own  mas- 
ter while  travelling,  and  could  break  his  journey  at 
Dantzic  quite  as  easily  as  at  Berlin. 

E'eufahrwasser  is  slowly  absorbing  the  commerce 
of  Dantzic,  and  none  but  small  vessels  go  up  the  river 
to  the  city  now.  Captain  Cable  was  deeply  versed 
in  those  by-paths  of  maritime  knowledge  which  en- 
able small  vessels  to  hold  tlieir  own  in  these  days  of 
monopoly. 

Cartoner  knew  that  he  would  find  the  Minnie  not 
in  dock,  but  in  one  of  the  river  anchorages,  which  are 
not  only  cheaper,  but  are  more  convenient  for  a  vessel 
wanting  to  go  to  sea  at  short  notice.  And  Captain  Cable 
had  a  habit  of  going  to  sea  at  short  notice. 

Cartoner  was  not  far  wrong.  For  his  own  steamer 
passed  the  Minnie  just  above  Neufahrwasser,  where 
the  river  is  broad  and  many  vessels  lie  in  mid-stream. 
The  Minnie  was  deeply  laden  and  lay  anchored  bow 
and  stern,  with  the  rapid  tide  rustling  round  her 
chains.  She  was  ready  for  sea.  Cartoner  could  see  that. 
But  she  flew  no  bluepeter  nor  heralded  her  departure, 
as  some  captains,  and  especially  foreigners,  love  to  do. 
It  adds  to  their  sense  of  importance,  and  this  was  a 
modern  quality  little  cultivated  by  Captain  Cable. 
ISTeither  was  his  steam  aggressively  in  evidence.  The 
Minnie  did  not  catch  the  eye  of  the  river-side  idler,  but 
conveyed  the  impression  that  she  was  a  small,  insig- 
nificant craft  minding  her  own  business,  and  would  be 
much  obliged  if  you  would  mind  yours. 

Cartoner  had  to  walk  back  by  the  river-side  and  then 
take  a  boat  from  the  steps  opposite  to  the  anchorage. 
He  bade  the  boatman  wait  while  he  clambered  on  board. 
Captain  Cable  had  been  informed  of  the  approach  of 

324 


CAPTAIi^    CABLE    SOILS    HIS    HAl^DS 

a  shore  boat,  and  was  standing  squarely  on  his  own  iron 
main-deck  when  Cartoner  put  his  leg  across  the  rail. 

"  Come  below,"  he  said,  without  enthusiasm.  "  It 
wasn't  you  that  I  was  expecting.    I  tell  you  that." 

Cartoner  followed  the  captain  into  the  little,  low 
cabin,  which  smelled  of  petroleum,  as  usual.  The  If  tn- 
nie  was  a  hospitable  ship,  according  to  her  facilities, 
and  her  skipper  began  by  polishing  a  tumbler  with  a 
corner  of  the  table-cloth.  Then  he  indicated  the  vacant 
SAving-back  bench  at  the  far  side  of  the  table,  and  sat 
down  opposite  to  Cartoner  himself. 

"  Was  up  the  Baltic,"  he  explained.  "  Pit  props. 
Got  a  full  cargo  on  board.  Got  an  offer  such  as  a  poor 
sailorman  couldn't  afford  to  let  slip  to  come  to  Dantzic 
and  wait  here  till  two  gents  came  aboard.  That's  all 
I'm  going  to  tell  you." 

"  That's  all  I  want  to  know,"  answered  Cartoner. 

"  But,  dammy,  it's  not  all  I  want  to  know !"  shouted 
Cable,  suddenly,  with  a  bang  of  his  little,  thick  fist  on 
the  table.  "  I've  been  thinking  since  I  lay  here — been 
sleeping  badly,  and  took  the  anchor  watch  meself — 
what  I  want  to  know  is  whether  I'm  to  be  treated  gen- 
tlemanly !" 

"  In  what  way  ?"  inquired  Cartoner,  gently.  And  the 
sound  of  his  voice  seemed  to  pacify  the  captain. 

"  Of  course,"  he  admitted,  "  I'm  not  a  gentleman,  I 
know  that;  but  in  seafaring  things  I'll  be  treated  as 
such.  Truth  is,  I'm  afraid  it's  something  to  do  with 
this  news  from  St.  Petersburg.  And  I  don't  take  any 
bombmen  on  board  my  ship,  and  that's  flat." 

"  I  think  I  can  reassure  you  on  that  point,"  said  Car- 
toner. "  ISTobody  who  had  to  do  with  the  assassination 
of  the  Czar  is  likely  to  be  in  Dantzic.  But  I  do  not 
know  whom  you  are  to  take  on  board  here." 

325 


THE     VULTUKES 


(( 


May  be  as  you  can  guess,"  suggested  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  can  guess,"  admitted  Cartoner,  with 
his  slow  smile. 

"  But  you  won't  tell  me  ?" 

"  No.     When  do  you  expect  them  ?" 

"  I'll  answer  that  and  ask  you  another,"  said  Captain 
Cable,  getting  a  yellow  decanter  from  a  locker  beneath 
the  table.  "  That's  port — ship-chandler's  port.  I  won't 
say  it's  got  a  bokay,  mind." 

For  Captain  Cable's  hospitality  was  not  showy  or 
self-sufficient. 

"  I'll  answer  that  and  ask  you  another.  I  expected 
them  last  night.  They'll  likely  come  down  with  the 
tide,  soon  after  midnight  to-night.  And  now  I'll  ask 
you,  what  brought  you  aboard  this  ship,  here  in  Dantzic 
River,  Mr.  Cartoner  ?" 

"  A  letter  from  a  Frenchman  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do — Paul  Deulin.     Like  to  read  it  ?" 

And  Cartoner  laid  the  letter  before  Captain  Cable, 
who  smiled  contemptuously.  He  knew  what  was  ex- 
pected of  a  gentleman  better  than  even  to  glance  at  it 
as  it  lay  before  him  in  its  envelope. 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,"  he  answered.  He  scratched  his 
head  reflectively,  and  looked  beneath  his  bushy  brows 
at  Cartoner  as  if  he  expected  the  ship-chandler's  port 
to  have  an  immediate  effect  of  some  sort. 

"  Got  your  luggage  in  the  boat  alongside  ?"  he  asked, 
at  length. 

"  No.     It's  at  the  station." 

"  Then  let  me  send  a  hand  ashore  for  it.  Got  three 
Germans  furard.  You'll  come  aboard  and  see  this 
thing  through,  I  hope." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Cartoner.  He  handed  Cap- 
tain Cable  the  ticket  for  his  luggage. 

326 


CAPTAIN    CABLE    SOILS    HIS    HA:N^DS 


a 


Mate's  receipt?"  inquired  the  captain. 

And  Cartoner  nodded.  The  captain  pushed  the  de- 
canter towards  his  guest  as  he  rose  to  go  and  give  the 
necessary  orders. 

"  ISTo  stint  of  the  wine,"  he  said,  and  went  out  on 
deck. 

When  he  came  back  he  laid  the  whole  question  aside, 
and  devoted  himself  to  the  entertainment  of  his  guest. 
They  both  slept  in  the  afternoon.  For  the  captain  had 
been  up  all  night,  and  fully  expected  to  see  no  bed  the 
following  night. 

"  If  they  come  down  with  the  tide  we'll  go  to  sea  on 
the  same  ebb,"  he  said,  as  he  lay  down  on  his  state-room 
locker  and  composed  himself  to  sleep. 

He  sent  the  hands  below  at  ten  o'clock,  saying  he 
would  keep  the  anchor  watch  himself.  He  wanted  no 
forecastle  gossip,  he  said  to  Cartoner,  and  did  not 
trouble  to  explain  that  he  had  kept  the  watch  three 
niahts  in  succession  on  that  account.  Cartoner  and  he 
walked  the  deck  side  by  side,  treading  softly  for  the 
sake  of  the  sleepers  under  deck.  For  the  same  reason, 
perhaps,  they  were  silent. 

Once  only  Captain  Cable  spoke  in  little  more  than  a 
whisper. 

"  Hope  he  is  pleased  with  himself,"  he  said,  as  he 
stood  at  the  stern  rail,  looking  up  river,  as  it  happen- 
ed, towards  Cracow.  "  For  it  is  his  doing,  you  and 
me  waiting  his  orders  here  this  cold  night.  They're 
tricky — the  French.     He's  a  tricky  man." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Cartoner,  who  knew  that  the  cap- 
tain spoke  of  Deulin,  "  he  is  a  tricky  man." 

After  this  they  walked  backward  and  forward  for 
an  hour  without  speaking.  Then  Captain  Cable  sud- 
denly raised  his  hand  and  pointed  into  the  night. 

327 


THE    V.ULTUKES 

"  There's  a  boat  yonder,"  he  said,  "  coming  down 
quiet,  under  the  lee  of  the  land." 

They  stood  listening,  and  presently  heard  the  sound 
of  oars  used  with  great  caution.  A  boat  was  crossing 
the  river  now  and  coming  towards  them.  Captain  Cable 
went  forward  and  took  a  coil  of  rope.  He  clambered 
laboriously  to  the  rail  and  stood  there,  watching  the 
shadowy  shape  of  the  boat,  which  was  now  within  hail. 
It  was  swinging  round  on  the  tide  with  perfect  calcu- 
lation and  a  most  excellent  skill. 

"  Stand  by,"  said  Captain  Cable,  gruffly,  and  the 
coils  of  his  rope  uncurled  against  the  sky,  to  fall  in  a 
straight  line  across  the  boat. 

Cartoner  could  see  a  man  catch  the  rope  neatly  and 
make  it  fast  with  two  turns.  In  a  moment  the  boat 
came  softly  nestling  against  the  steamer  as  a  kitten  may 
nestle  against  its  mother. 

The  man,  who  seemed  to  be  the  sole  occupant,  stood 
up,  resting  his  hand  on  the  rail  of  the  Minnie.  His 
head  came  up  over  the  rail,  and  he  peered  into  Car- 
toner's  face. 

"  You !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Cartoner,  watching  his  hands,  for 
there  was  a  sort  of  exultation  in  Kosmaroff's  voice,  as 
if  fate  had  offered  him  a  chance  which  he  never  ex- 
pected. 

Cable  came  aft  and  stood  beside  Cartoner. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  sea  this  tide,"  he  said.  "  Where  is 
the  other  man  ?" 

"  The  other  man  is  Prince  Martin  Bukaty,"  was  the 
answer.     "  Help  me  to  lift  him  on  board." 

"  Why  can't  he  come  on  board  himself  ?" 

"  Because  he  is  dead,"  answered  Kosmaroff,  with  a 
break  in  his  voice.    And  he  lurched  forward  against  the 

328 


CAPTAIN    CABLE    SOILS    HIS    HANDS 

rail.     Cartoner  caught  him  by  one  arm  and  held  him 
up. 

"  I  am  so  weak !"  he  murmured,  "  so  weak !  I  am 
famished !" 

Cartoner  lifted  him  bodily  over  the  rail,  and  Cable 
received  him,  half  fainting,  in  his  arms.  The  next 
moment  Cartoner  was  kneeling  in  the  boat  that  rode 
alongside.  He  slowly  raised  Martin,  and  with  an  effort 
held  him  towards  the  captain,  who  was  sitting  astride 
on  the  rail.  Thus  they  got  him  on  board  and  carried 
him  to  the  cabin.  They  passed  through  it  to  that  which 
was  grandly  called  the  captain's  state-room.  They  laid 
him  on  the  locker  which  served  for  a  bed,  while  Kosma- 
roff,  supporting  himself  against  the  bulkhead,  watched 
them  in  silence. 

The  captain  glanced  at  Martin,  and  then,  catching 
sight  of  Kosmaroff's  face,  he  hurried  to  the  cabin,  to 
return  in  a  minute  with  the  inevitable  decanter,  yellow 
with  age  and  rust. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  drink  that.  Eat  a  bit  o'  biscuit. 
You're  done." 

Kosmaroff  did  as  he  was  told.  His  eyes  had  the  un- 
mistakable glitter  of  starvation  and  exhaustion.  They 
were  fixed  on  Cartoner's  face,  with  a  hundred  unasked 
questions  in  them. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?"  asked  Cartoner,  at  length. 

"  They  fired  on  us  crossing  the  frontier,  and  hit  him. 
Pity  it  was  not  me.  He  is  a  much  greater  loss  than  I 
should  have  been.  That  was  the  night  before  last.  He 
died  before  the  morning." 

"Tut!  tut!"  muttered  Captain  Cable,  with  an  un- 
writable expression  of  pity.  "  There  was  the  mak- 
ings of  a  man  in  him,"  he  said — "  the  makings  of  a 
man !" 

329 


THE     VUL TUBES 

And  what  Captain  Cable  held  worthy  of  the  name  of 
man  is  not  so  common  as  to  be  lost  to  the  world  with  in- 
difference. He  stood  reflecting  for  a  moment  while 
Kosmaroff  ate  the  ship's  biscuit  offered  to  him  in  the 
lid  of  a  box,  and  Cartoner  stared  thoughtfully  at  the 
flickering  lamp. 

"  I'll  take  him  out  to  sea  and  bury  him  there,"  said 
Cable,  at  length,  "  if  so  be  as  that's  agreeable  to  you. 
There's  many  a  good  man  buried  at  sea,  and  when  my 
time  comes  I'll  ask  for  no  better  berth." 

"  That  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done,"  said  Cartoner. 

Xosmaroff  glanced  towards  the  bed. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  will  do.  He  will  lay  quiet 
enough  there." 

And  all  three,  perhaps,  thought  of  all  that  they  were 
to  bury  beneath,  the  sea  with  this  the  last  of  the  Bu- 
katys. 

Captain  Cable  was  the  first  to  move.  He  turned  and 
glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  I'll  turn  the  hands  out,"  he  said,  "  and  we'll  get  to 
sea  on  the  ebb.    But  I'll  have  to  send  ashore  for  a  pilot." 

"  No,"  answered  Kosmaroff,  rising  and  finishing  his 
wine,  "  you  need  not  do  that.  I  can  take  you  out  to 
sea." 

The  captain  nodded  curtly  and  went  on  deck,  leav- 
ing Kosmaroff  and  Cartoner  alone  in  the  cabin  in  the 
silent  presence  of  the  man  who  had  been  the  friend  of 
both. 

"  Will  you  answer  me  a  question  ?"  asked  Kosmaroff, 
suddenly. 

"  If  I  can,"  was  the  reply,  economical  of  words. 

"  Where  were  you  on  the  13th  of  March  ?" 

Cartoner  refiected  for  a  moment,  and  then  replied : 

"  In  St.  Petersburg." 

330 


CAPTAIN    CABLE    SOILS    HIS    HANDS 

"  Then  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Kosmaroff. 
"  I  don't  understand  how  we  failed.  For  you  know  we 
have  failed,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing,"  answered  Cartoner.  "  But  I  con- 
clude you  have  failed,  since  you  are  here — and  he  is 
there." 

And  he  pointed  towards  Martin. 

"  Thanks  to  you." 

"  'No,  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Cartoner. 

"  You  cannot  expect  me  to  believe  that." 

"  I  do  not  care,"  replied  the  English  diplomat,  gent- 
ly, "  whether  you  believe  it  or  not." 

Kosmaroff  moved  towards  the  door.  He  carefully 
avoided  passing  near  Cartoner,  as  if  too  close  a  prox- 
imity might  make  him  forget  himself. 

"  I  will  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said,  in  a  hard,  low 
voice.  "  It  will  not  do  for  you  to  show  your  face  in 
Poland.  Don't  ever  forget  that  I  will  take  any  chance 
I  get  to  kill  you !  There  is  not  room  for  you  and  me  in 
Poland !" 

"  If  I  am  sent  there  I  shall  go,"  replied  Cartoner. 
And  there  crept  to  one  side  of  Kosmaroff's  face  that 
slow  smile  which  seemed  to  give  him  pain. 

"  I  believe  you  will." 

Then  he  went  to  the  door.  For  Captain  Cable  could 
be  heard  on  deck  giving  his  orders,  and  already  the 
winches  were  at  work.  But  the  Pole  paused  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  back.  Then  he  came  into  the  cabin 
again  with  his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  threadbare 
workman's  jacket. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  bringing  out  a  folded  envelope 
and  laying  it  on  the  cabin-table  between  them.  "  A 
dead  man's  wish.  Get  that  to  Miss  Cahere.  There  is 
no  message." 

331 


THE     VULTUKES 

Cartoner  took  up  the  envelope  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"  I  shall  not  see  her,  but  I  will  see  that  she  gets  it," 
he  said. 

The  dawn  was  in  the  skj  before  the  Minnie  swept 
out  past  the  pier-head  light  of  ISTeufahrwasser.  It  was 
almost  daylight  when  she  slowed  down  in  the  bay  to 
drop  her  pilot.  Kosmaroff's  boat  was  towing  astern, 
jumping  and  straining  in  the  wash  of  the  screw.  They 
hauled  it  up  under  the  quarter,  and  in  the  dim  light  of 
coming  day  Cable  and  Cartoner  drew  near  to  the  Pole, 
who  had  just  quitted  the  wheel. 

The  three  men  stood  together  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
There  was  much  to  be  said.  There  was  a  multitude  of 
questions  to  be  asked  and  answered.  But  none  of  the 
three  had  the  intention  of  doing  either  one  or  the  other. 

"  If  you  want  a  passage  home,"  said  Cable,  gruffly, 
"  cut  your  boat  adrift.    You're  welcome." 

"  Thank  you,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  am  going  back 
to  Poland  to  try  again." 

He  turned  to  Cartoner,  and  peered  in  the  half-light 
into  the  face  of  the  only  man  he  had  had  dealings  with 
who  had  not  been  afraid  of  him.  "  Perhaps  we  shall 
meet  again  soon,"  he  said,  "  in  Poland." 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  Cartoner.  "  I  am  under  orders 
for  Madrid." 

Kosmaroff  stood  by  the  rail  for  a  moment,  looking 
down  into  his  boat.  Then  he  turned  suddenly  to  Car- 
toner, and  made  him  a  short,  formal  bow. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

Cartoner  nodded,  and  said  nothing. 

Kosmaroff  then  turned  towards  Cable,  who  was  stand- 
ing with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  jacket-pockets,  looking 
ahead  towards  the  open  sea. 

332 


CAPTAIN    CABLE    SOILS    HIS    HANDS 

"  Captain,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  hand  so  that 
Cable  could  not  help  seeing  it.  The  captain  hesitated, 
and  at  length  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  shelter  of  his 
pocket. 

"  Good-bye,  mister,"  he  said. 

Then  Kosmaroff  climbed  down  into  his  boat.  They 
cast  the  rope  adrift,  and  he  sat  down  to  the  oars. 

There  was  a  lurid  streak  of  dawn  low  down  in  the 
sky,  and  Kosmaroff  headed  his  boat  towards  it  across 
the  chill,  green  waters.  Above  the  promise  of  a  stormy 
day  towered  a  great  bank  of  torn  clouds  hanging  over 
Poland. 


XXXVII 

THE    PAETING    OF    THE    WAYS 

^AUL  DEULIlSr  happened  to  be  in  Lady 
Orlay's  drawing-room  in  London  one  af- 
ternoon, nearly  a  month  later,  when  Miss 
ja  Cahere's  name  was  announced.  He  made 
)^  a  grimace  and  stood  his  ground. 

Lady  Orlay,  it  may  be  remembered, 
was  one  of  those  who  attempt  to  keep  their  acquaintances 
in  the  right  place — that  is  to  say,  in  the  background  of 
her  life.  With  this  object  in  view,  she  had  an  "  at 
home  "  day,  hoping  that  her  acquaintances  would  come 
to  see  her  then  and  would  not  stay  too  long.  To-day  was 
not  that  day. 

"  I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  come  this  afternoon," 
explained  ISTetty,  with  a  rather  shy  haste,  as  she  shook 
hands.  "  But  I  could  not  wait  until  next  Tuesday,  be- 
cause we  sail  that  day." 

"  Then  you  are  going  home  again  ?" 
ISTetty  turned  to  greet  Deulin,  and  changed  color  very 
prettily. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with 
the  soft  blush  still  in  her  cheeks — "  yes,  and  I  am  en- 
gaged to  be  married." 

"  Ah !"  said  Deulin.  And  his  voice  meant  a  great 
deal,  while  his  eyes  said  nothing. 

"  Do  we  know  the — gentleman  ?"  asked  Lady  Orlay, 

334 


THE     PARTING     OF     THE     WAYS 

kindly.  She  was  noting,  with  her  quick  and  clever 
eyes,  that  ISTetty  seemed  happy  and  was  exquisitely 
dressed.  She  was  quite  ready  to  be  really  interested  in 
this  idyl. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  ISTetty.  "  He  is  not  un- 
known in  London.     His  name  is  Burris." 

"  Oh !"  said  Lady  Orlay,  "  the  comp— "  Then  she 
remembered  that  to  call  a  fellow-creature  a  company 
promoter  is  practically  a  libel.  "  The  millionaire  ?" 
she  concluded,  rather  lamely. 

"  I  believe  he  is  very  rich,"  admitted  ISTetty,  "  though, 
of  course — " 

"  'No,  of  course  not,"  Lady  Orlay  hastened  to  say. 
"  I  congratulate  you,  and  wish  you  every  happi- 
ness." 

She  turned  rather  abruptly  towards  Deulin,  as  if  to 
give  the  next  word  to  him.    He  took  it  promptly. 

"  And  I,"  he  said,  with  his  old-world  bow  and  depre- 
catory outspreading  of  the  hands — "  I  wish  you  all  the 
happiness — that  money  can  buy." 

Then  he  walked  towards  the  fireplace,  and  stood  there 
with  his  shoulder  turned  towards  them  while  the  two 
ladies  discussed  that  which  was  to  be  I^etty's  future  life. 
Her  husband  would  be  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  but 
he  was  a  millionaire  twice  over — in  London  and  New 
York.  He  had,  moreover,  a  house  in  each  of  those  great 
cities,  of  which  details  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 
the  illustrated  monthly  magazines. 

"  So  I  shall  hope  to  be  in  London  every  year,"  said 
!Netty,  "  and  to  see  all  the  friends  who  have  been  so  kind 
to  us — you  and  Lord  Orlay  and  Mr.  Deulin." 

"  And  Reginald  Cartoner,"  suggested  Deulin,  turn- 
ing to  look  over  his  shoulder  for  the  change  which  he 
knew  would  come  into  Netty's  eyes.     And  it  came. 

335 


THE     VULTURES 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  She  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to 
ask  a  question,  but  did  not  give  way  to  the  temptation. 
She  did  not  know  that  Cartoner  was  in  the  house  at 
that  moment,  and  Wanda,  too.  She  did  not  know  that 
Deulin  had  brought  Wanda  to  London  to  stay  at  Lady 
Orlay's  until  Martin  effected  his  escape  and  joined  his 
sister  in  England.  She  only  knew  what  the  world  now 
knew — that  Prince  Martin  Bukaty  had  died  and  been 
buried  at  sea.  It  was  very  sad,  she  had  said,  he  was  so 
nice. 

Deulin  did  not  join  in  the  conversation  again.  He 
seemed  to  be  interested  in  the  fire,  and  Lady  Orlay 
glanced  at  him  once  or  twice,  seeking  to  recall  him  to 
a  sense  of  his  social  obligations.  He  had  taken  an  en- 
velope from  his  pocket,  and,  having  torn  it  in  two,  had 
thrown  it  on  the  fire,  where  it  was  smouldering  now  on 
the  coals.  It  was  a  soiled  and  worn  envelope,  as  if  it 
had  passed  through  vicissitudes ;  there  seemed  to  be 
something  inside  it  which  burned  and  gave  forth  an  aro- 
matic odor. 

He  was  still  watching  the  fire  when  Netty  rose  and 
took  her  leave.  When  the  door  closed  again  Lady  Orlay 
went  towards  the  fire. 

"  What  is  that  in  which  you  are  so  deeply  interested 
that  you  quite  forgot  to  be  polite  ?"  she  said  to  Deulin. 
"Is  it  a  letter?" 

"  It  is  a  love-token,"  answered  the  Frenchman. 

"  For  Netty  Cahere?" 

"  No.  For  the  woman  that  some  poor  fool  supposed 
her  to  be." 

Lady  Orlay  touched  the  envelope  with  the  toe  of  a 
slipper  which  was  still  neat  and  small,  so  that  it  fell 
into  the  glowing  centre  of  the  fire  and  was  there  con- 
sumed. 

336 


THE     PAETING    OF    THE    WAYS 

"  Perhaps  you  have  assumed  a  great  responsibility," 
she  said. 

''  I  have,  and  I  shall  carry  it  lightly  to  heaven  if  I 
get  there." 

"  It  has  a  smell  of  violets,"  said  Lady  Orlay,  looking 
down  into  the  fire. 

"  They  are  violets — from  Warsaw,"  admitted  Deulin. 
"  Wanda  is  in  ?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"  Yes ;  they  are  in  the  study.    I  will  send  for  her." 

"  I  have  received  a  letter  from  her  father,"  said  Deu- 
lin, with  his  hand  on  the  bell. 

Wanda  came  into  the  room  a  few  minutes  later.  She 
was,  of  course,  in  mourning  for  Martin  now,  as  well  as 
for  Poland.  But  she  still  carried  her  head  high  and 
faced  the  world  with  unshrinking  eyes.  Cartoner  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  room,  his  thoughtful  glance  reading 
Deulin's  face. 

"  You  have  news  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  from  your  father  at  last." 

The  Frenchman  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  and 
his  manner  of  unfolding  it  must  have  conveyed  the 
intimation  that  he  was  not  going  to  give  it  to  Wanda, 
but  intended  to  read  it  aloud,  for  Lady  Orlay  walked 
to  the  other  end  of  the  long  room,  out  of  hearing.  Car- 
toner  was  about  to  follow  her,  when  Wanda  turned  and 
glanced  at  him,  and  he  stayed. 

"  The  letter  begins,"  said  Deulin,  unconsciously  fall- 
ing into  a  professional  preliminary — 

"  '  I  have  received  Cartoner's  letter  supplementing 
the  account  given  by  the  man  who  was  with  Martin  at 
the  last.  I  remember  Captain  Cable  quite  well.  When 
we  met  him  at  the  Signal  House,  at  ]!^orthfleet,  I  little 
thought  that  he  would  be  called  upon  to  render  the  last 
earthly  service  to  my  son.  So  it  was  he  who  read  the 
22  ,  337 


THE     VULTUKES 

last  words.  And  Martin  was  buried  in  the  Baltic.  You, 
my  old  friend,  know  all  that  I  have  given  to  Poland. 
The  last  gift  has  been  the  hardest  to  part  with.  Some 
day  I  hope  to  write  to  Cartoner,  but  not  now.  He  is 
not  a  man  to  attach  much  importance  to  words.  He  is, 
I  think,  a  man  to  understand  silence.  At  present  I 
cannot  write,  as  I  am  virtually  a  prisoner  in  my  own 
house.  From  a  high  quarter  I  have  received  a  gracious 
intimation  that  my  affairs  are  under  the  special  atten- 
tion of  a  beneficent  monarch,  and  that  I  am  so  far  to 
be  mercifully  forgiven  that  a  sentence  of  perpetual 
confinement  within  the  barriers  of  Warsaw  will  be 
deemed  sufficient  punishment  for — not  having  been 
found  out.  But  my  worst  enemies  are  my  own  party. 
Nothing  can  now  convince  them  that  Martin  and  I  did 
not  betray  the  plot.  Moreover,  Cartoner's  name  is  free- 
ly coupled  with  ours.  So  they  believe.  So  it  will  go 
down  to  history,  and  nothing  that  we  can  say  will  make 
any  difference.  That  I  find  myself  in  company  with 
Cartoner  in  this  error  only  strengthens  the  feeling  of 
friendship,  of  which  I  was  conscious  when  we  first  met. 
Beg  him,  for  his  own  sake,  never  to  cross  this  frontier 
again.  Ask  him,  for  mine,  to  avoid  making  any  sign 
of  friendship  towards  me  or  mine.'  " 

As  fate  ruled  it,  the  letter  required  turning  at  this 
point,  and  Deulin,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps, 
made  a  mistake  at  a  crucial  moment.  He  allowed  his 
voice  to  break  on  the  next  word,  and  had  to  pause  for 
an  instant  before  he  could  proceed. 

"  Then  follow,"  he  said,  rather  uneasily,  "  certain 
passages  to  myself  which  I  need  not  read.  Further  on 
he  proceeds :  '  I  am  in  good  health.  Better,  indeed, 
than  when  I  last  saw  you.  I  am,  in  fact,  a  very  tough 
old  man,  and  may  live  to  give  much  trouble  yet.'  " 

338 


THE    PAETING    OF     THE     WAYS 

Deulin  broke  off,  and  laughed  heartily  at  this  con- 
ceit.   But  he  laughed  alone. 

"  So,  you  see,  he  seems  very  cheerful,"  he  said,  as  if 
it  was  the  letter  that  had  laughed.  He  folded  the  paper 
and  replaced  it  in  his  pocket.  "  He  seems  to  be  getting 
on  very  well  without  you,  you  perceive,"  he  added, 
smiling  at  Wanda.  But  he  lacked  conviction.  There 
was  in  his  voice  and  manner  a  dim  suggestion  of  the 
losing  game,  consciously  played. 

"  May  I  read  the  letter  for  myself  ?"  asked  Wanda, 
holding  out  her  slim,  steady  hand. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Deulin  took  the  folded 
paper  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her.  Lady  Orlay 
had  returned  to  the  group  standing  near  the  fire.  He 
turned  and  met  her  eyes,  making  an  imperceptible 
movement  of  his  eyebrows,  as  of  one  who  had  made  an 
attempt  and  failed.  They  waited  in  silence  while 
Wanda  read  the  letter,  and  at  length  she  handed  it  back 
to  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  read  it  differently.  It  is  not 
only  the  world  which  appears  differently  to  two  different 
people.  Even  a  letter  may  have  two  meanings  to  two 
readers.    You  shed  a  sort  of  gayety  upon  that — " 

She  indicated  the  letter  which  he  still  held  in  his 
hand,  and  Deulin  deprecated  the  suggestion  by  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders. 

" — which  is  not  really  there.  To  me  it  is  the  letter 
of  a  broken-hearted  man,"  she  added,  slowly.  There  was 
an  odd  pause,  during  which  Wanda  seemed  to  reflect. 
She  was  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Even  Deulin  had 
nothing  to  say.  He  could  not  point  out  the  path.  Per- 
haps Cartoner  had  already  done  so  by  his  own  life,  with- 
out any  words  at  all. 

"  I  shall  go  to  Warsaw  to-night,"  she  said  at  last  to 

339 


THE     VULTUEES 

Lady  Orlay,  "  if  you  will  not  think  me  wanting  in  man- 
ners. Believe  me,  I  do  not  lack  gratitude.  But — ^you 
understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  understand,"  replied  the  woman  who 
had  known  happiness.  And  she  closed  her  lips  quickly, 
as  if  she  feared  that  they  might  falter. 

"  It  is  so  clearly  my  duty,  and  duty  is  best,  is  it  not  ?" 
said  Wanda.  As  she  spoke  she  turned  to  Cartoner.  The 
question  was  asked  of  none  other.  It  was  unto  his  judg- 
ment that  she  gave  her  case ;  to  his  wisdom  she  submitted 
the  verdict  of  her  life.  She  wished  him  to  give  it  be- 
fore these  people.  As  if  she  took  a  subtle  pride  in  show- 
ing them  that  he  was  what  she  knew  him  to  be.  She  was 
sure  of  her  lover;  which  is,  perhaps,  happiness  enough 
for  this  world. 

"  Duty  is  best,  is  it  not  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  It  is  the  only  thing,"  he  answered. 

Deulin  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  had  strong  views 
upon  last  words  and  partings.  The  mere  thought  of 
such  things  made  him  suddenly  energetic  and  active. 
He  turned  to  Wanda  with  his  watch  in  his  hand. 

"  Your  mind  is  made  up  ?"  he  asked.  "  You  go 
to-night  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  must  go  at  once  to  see  to  your  passport  and 
make  arrangements  for  the  journey.  I  take  you  as  far 
as  Alexandrowo.  I  cannot  take  you  across  the  frontier, 
you  understand  ?" 

He  turned  to  Cartoner. 

"  And  you  ?    When  do  you  go  to  Spain  ?" 

"  To-night,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  good-bye."  The  Frenchman  held  out  his 
hand,  and  in  a  moment  was  at  the  door.  Lady  Orlay 
followed  him  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door  be- 

340 


THE    PARTING    OF     THE    WAYS 

liind  her.  She  followed  him  down-stairs.  In  the  hall 
they  stood  and  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  There 
were  tears  in  the  woman's  eyes.  But  Deulin's  smile  was 
sadder. 

"  And  this  is  the  end,"  he  said—"  the  end  !" 
"  'No,''  said  Lady  Orlay ;  "  it  is  not.  It  cannot  be. 
I  have  never  known  a  great  happiness  yet  that  was  not 
built  upon  the  wreckage  of  other  happinesses.  That  is 
why  happy  people  are  never  gay.  It  is  not  the  end, 
Paul.    Heaven  is  kind." 

"  Sometimes,"  answered  Deulin,  grudgingly.  On  the 
door-step  he  paused,  and,  facing  her  suddenly,  he  made 
a  gesture  indicating  himself,  commanding  her  attention 
to  his  long  life  and  story.    "  Sometimes,  milady." 


THE    END 


f^ciufv 


I 


